


the sky and the shoreline

by mnabokov



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-10 02:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5566189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Confused?” Hannibal almost smirks, and if Will were twenty years younger that look would’ve forced all the blood in his brain to travel south.</p><p>Will allows a small chuckle to escape from his lips, and he starts to shake his head. “From what I can see, you spend most of your time building walls and fortifying your castle. I’m trying to understand why you’re letting me in so easily.”</p><p>Hannibal pauses ever so slightly. </p><p>“Well, I’m afraid I’ve subdued my intentions too well. I like you very much, Will and I would like to be your friend.”</p><p>Will slackens his jaw and lets a long billow of air escape from his lungs.</p><p>“Why?” he asks, a moment later.</p><p>“I find you very interesting,” the doctor answers simply. He raises his glass towards Will in a toast, then drains the rest of his wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Tiger's Jaw 'Plane vs Tank vs Submarine.'
> 
> This is set roughly between 1x04 and 1x05.

Will Graham sits across from Hannibal.

 

"Previously you mentioned that when you see your home as a ship afloat, you feel safe. When you think of safety, you immediately think of the sea, Will. What does this say about you?"

 

Will visibly hesitates, head turned to his left, chin barely touching the slope of his clavicle. A small silence hangs between Hannibal and Will, neither of them willing to disrupt the space between them. Will's tongue slips through his lips, just a sliver of hot flesh but Hannibal zeroes in on the movement, eyes lidded. Desire simmers low in his gut and if it wouldn't have disturbed Will, Hannibal might've hummed in appreciation. 

 

"It says a lot of things," Will says finally, voice low.

 

"The ocean does not normally represent stability, Will. Nor does it represent safety. It is a constant ebb and flow, push and pull. Perhaps the nature of your unconscious craves this undulation in everyday life." Hannibal turns his gaze towards the window, where the world rests quietly in the darkness. 

 

"The ocean can mean a lot of things, Doctor Lecter," Will says.

 

Hannibal pauses for a moment, considers his next words before speaking. 

 

"The sea promises erasure, Will. Do you require erasure in your life?"

 

"The sea doesn't lie, Doctor Lecter. You watch it, you ask it, it'll speak the truth. It says erasure, clearly. I need more clarity in my life."

 

The doctor turns to face Will again. Will's hair sets his face in a frame of dark curls. It reminds Hannibal of Michelangelo's David and briefly, Hannibal entertains the notion of sculpting a bust of Will. Perhaps from clay. How apt, that he is made from earth and immortalized in earth.

 

Hannibal casts his stray thoughts away like wiping a slate. 

 

"Clarity can be dangerous. Oedipus's fatal flaw was his insatiable desire to see the truth."

 

Will's lips twist in an unpleasant way and he shifts in his seat. "And when he did, he gouged out his own eyes." When he moves, Hannibal catches the scent of motor oil, clean sweat, and whiskey. Hannibal lets his eyes flutter halfway closed, the mélange of scents swirling on his palate like a fine wine.

 

"Epic tales are cautionary tales, Doctor Lecter. Are you trying to caution me?"

 

Hannibal reopens his eyes. 

 

"I am trying to help you envision your future if you keep entering the heads of these killers. Will you endure these pernicious effects until there is nothing left of you but a shell of what you are?"

 

"I – " Will starts to shake his head but abruptly halts the motion halfway through. His eyebrows furrow and lips pursue. "I know who I am," Will repeats, and Hannibal wonders who he is trying to convince. 

 

"There will always be murderers to catch, people to save."

 

Will lifts his head in caricature of a nod.

 

"What about saving yourself, Will? Should you not concentrate on yourself before helping others?"

 

"I'm saving lives," Will insists, and by now this conversation is a well-worn path.

 

Hannibal dips his head in consideration before continuing. "Do you believe utopia is achievable Will?"

 

"Not really," Will says and his hands wring themselves around the tattered jacket in his lap. "It's quixotic."

 

"Some believe achieving utopia will be the end of history. With no conflicts to solve, there will be no growth, no progression," Hannibal folds his hands into his lap placidly.

 

"Are you saying I should let these murders unfold? For the sake of... progression?" Will inquires slowly, the corners of his mouth lilting upwards in question as he drags out the last word.

 

"I'm simply offering you reason to leave your work in the field."

 

"I – thank you," Will manages. "But – "

 

"But you are torn between ethics and morality. Morally, you could justify your departure from working in the field, but ethically, you are inclined to remain working. To save lives, as you so succinctly put it."

 

Will sighs, a shaky exhale and Hannibal imagines the stretch of skin over Will's ribs as he breathes, goose bumps erupting in the cool air of Hannibal's office. Hannibal thinks of an article he read before, of a farm starving tigers to ferment wine from their crushed bones. He thinks of brewing something from the delicate bones of Will's ribcage.

 

"Articulate and observant as always," Will grudgingly admits and Hannibal allows the shadow of a smile to grace his countenance. 

 

A quick glance at his watch allows the beginnings of a plan to grow in Hannibal's mind. 

 

"It is getting late Will. Would you care to have dinner with me tonight? And perhaps a glass of wine before you go."

 

Hannibal sees the hesitance in Will's eyes, as well as the fluttering of his hands, lingering. He smiles. "I insist."

 

-

 

Will tries not to lie during therapy.

 

But Will prefers the sin of omission to blatant lying, so during session when Dr. Lecter mentions erasure, Will's breath hitches, and Will pushes onto the subject of clarity, which he also needs. 

 

Will knows who he is. Will does not know if pushing into killer's heads will allow him to retain that sense of mind. Will knows he would like to erase the vestiges of Garrett Jacob Hobbs' thoughts from his mind. Will knows that ever since Hannibal entered his life - with his steady, surgical hands, and his radiating calm – Dr. Lecter has been a source of stability for Will. An anchor of sorts, in the undulations of his everyday life. Will is not sure if therapy is helping him. 

 

But Dr. Lecter has been nothing but polite, and he never radiates emotions like Jack or Alana; he is a relief from the onslaught of anger or pity and Will revels in the peace. Will only hesitates for a moment, and after Dr. Lecter insists, he cautiously accepts an invitation to dinner.  

 

Hannibal Lecter's home is the facsimile of his elegant nature, full of rich and dark colors, sophisticated and yet slightly mysterious. 

 

Will is drawn to the deep reds of the doctor's carpets and the cleanliness – almost sterility – of his kitchen. 

 

In the office, Dr. Lecter is cool and clinical. In the kitchen, he is controlled chaos, stirring one pan and sautéing another. 

 

Will blinks. 

 

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

 

Hannibal smiles, "You may dice the tomatoes," and nods towards the cutting board. 

 

"Oh may I," and the beginning of a smile tugs at Will's lips as he begins slicing said tomatoes. 

 

Hannibal sends him an amused look. 

 

"Tonight," Hannibal pours oil into the skillet with a flourish, "we are having beef Biryani: sliced beef with basmati rice and spices. A staple food from the Indian subcontinent, and today, served with a side of tomatoes, and a warm milk and saffron sauce."

 

Will lets out a contented hum, slicing his tomatoes. The whole thing feels very domestic, perhaps a hair _too_ domestic, but the glass of Chardonnay Hannibal had offered him is now comfortably nestled in his stomach, warming his gut and loosening his muscles. 

 

"Is this something you normally do with your patients? Bring them home, cozy them up with wine and cook for them?" Perhaps the wine has loosened his tongue as well. 

 

"Just for friends," Hannibal reaffirms, and Will watches Hannibal bend down to retrieve a bottle of saffron, admires the way his back muscles pull taut against his dress shirt. 

 

Will steals glimpses of Hannibal cooking, storing them away to access later, and eventually the meal is finished, two steaming plates set onto a lavish black tablecloth. Will and Hannibal take their seats respectively, and the meal looks delicious. 

 

Ribbons of beef rest upon a bed of bright basmati rice, next to a spoonful of tomatoes and smothered with a thick, aromatic sauce. The whole dining table is about as extravagant as the dish, elevating it to probably the finest meal Will has eaten. 

 

"This looks delicious," Will says, fingers already entwined with his fork. 

 

"Bon appetite," says Hannibal, over his glass of Chardonnay. 

 

The beef is so tender it nearly melts in Will's mouth, and the warmth from the wine and the meat rest wonderfully in his stomach. 

 

“In the book of Leviticus, whenever Israelites sinned, they received remission of said sins by sacrificing an animal to their God. They believed by transferring their sins onto the animal, they received pardoning. The most common sacrifice was bull,” Hannibal explains.

 

“The punishment for sinning was death. It’s hard to believe their God would accept a dead cow in place of the death of the sinner,” Will grimaces, and he picks up his second glass of wine.

 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal acquiesces. “Would you consider yourself a sacrifice, Will?”

 

The Chardonnay swishes around Will’s molars before he swallows.

 

“Jesus took the sins of his people upon himself. Is that considered sacrifice?”

 

Hannibal hums.

 

“In this sense, we have a few shared attributes with Jesus Christ. You, taken upon yourself the sins of the killers, and I, the onerous burden of assisting my patients. We are all the sons of God, in this sense.”

 

“Some more than others,” Will replies, and he finishes the last of his beef with fervor.

 

The rest of their dinner conversation is less heavy; there are polite inquiries (on Hannibal’s behalf) and more than a few cutting remarks (thanks to Will) which Hannibal simply smiles amusedly at.

 

Will insists on helping Hannibal clear the table, but the doctor cleans the dishes himself, instructing Will to help himself to another glass of wine and to explore the sitting room.

 

After a bit of reluctance, Will finds another warm flute of wine in his palm and wanders slowly into Hannibal’s sitting room. Like the rest of his home, the sitting room is equal parts ornate and refined, decorated with various accoutrements and paraphernalia and a rich patterned wall paper.

 

Will finds himself standing in front of the full-length window nestled in the corner of the room, peering out into the night. Heavy olive curtains hang from an impressive-looking headpiece above the window, and Will reaches out to touch it, fingers running down the cloth.

 

The sound of soft footfalls let Will know Hannibal has entered the room.

 

“It is a clear night,” Hannibal notes, as he comes over to stand next to Will.  


Suddenly, Will is hyperaware of the height difference between him and Hannibal, the broad sturdiness of Hannibal’s shoulders and Will’s hands clench. Then, the moment passes as quickly as it came.

 

“Yeah,” Will manages to say, and he drinks from his glass.

 

There is less than a foot of space between him and the doctor, and Will feels the urge to put space between them once again.

 

“I should go,” Will begins.

 

Hannibal turns to glance at the clock on his desk, “It is late. Will you require me to drive you back?”

 

“It’s a long drive,” Will shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Thank you for the dinner, Dr. Lecter.”

 

“Please,” Hannibal says as he directs Will towards the door, takes his empty wine glass from Will’s pliant hands. “I love having friends for dinner. Hopefully we shall dine together again, soon.”

 

Will breathes as he steps through Hannibal’s front door, cold air biting his skin. “Of course,” Will says, and Hannibal smiles with a knowing glint in his eyes.

 

-

 

“The victims were all killed by a single shot from behind, right below the rib cage. Cause of death for all three was a collapsed lung. All three were found in a secluded area in Maryland, near the Elk river, within a fifty-mile radius of each other. Autopsy shows that the victims were killed within days of each other.”

 

Will stands in front of Hannibal’s fireplace in his office, watching the flames lick and burn. His hands are in his pockets and he feels too calm.

 

“Jack told me you found the killer quickly enough.”

 

Hannibal sits behind Will, at his desk, pencil scratching softly on paper, back turned on the fire. Hannibal does not ask Will why this case has stuck with Will, but his silence hangs like an invitation in the air.

 

“It was… clear,” Will says slowly, and there’s a crackling sound as the fire pops and hisses. “The design spoke to me with clarity. The killer took a – a needle. A sewing needle and pierced the skin of his victims, from the wrists to the elbow, ankles to the knees. Random dispersion of pinpricks that punctured the dermis.”

 

The scratching of Hannibal’s pencil is relentless, and Will turns closer to the fire.

 

“He was angry,” Will says, softer. “His name was Edward Drees. Was a single father, had a single son who died of cancer two weeks before the first victim died. Victims were chosen randomly, strangers who were alone. Before his son died, he felt pain. Nine-year old Eric told his father he felt pinpricks in his arms.” Will lets out a slow breath of air. “Edward Drees was angry at God.”

 

The scratching stops and Will hears the gentle push of a chair as Hannibal stands. “The death of three victims. Possibly representing the holy Trinity. A man wants retribution for the untimely death of his son and finds it in destroying God’s creations.”

 

Will hears Hannibal come up behind him. He continues watching the fire.

 

“How was this case different for you, Will? What did you see that you felt the urge to discuss with me?”

 

Will hardly registers the question. His throat feels oddly parched. The firelight refracts in his glasses and he feels the weight of the warmth on his clothes.

 

“Do you think I can have a glass of wine?” Will requests, without looking at Hannibal.

 

“Of course.”

 

Will hears Hannibal leaves and he thinks of those winter Sundays in Louisiana, when his father would rise early to start a fire. Will remembers the color of his breath in the air, the cold splintering into fragments as his father piled dry logs into the fireplace.

 

It seems that Hannibal has returned in a heartbeat, offering Will a fat tumbler filled with an amber-colored whiskey. “Macallan’s fine oak. I realize that whiskey is more of your drink than wine,” Hannibal adds teasingly, and this elicits a dry chuckle from Will.

 

“Thank you.”

 

The whiskey is cool and slides down Will’s throat smoothly; it’s slight chill is a pleasant juxtaposition to the heat of the fire. 

 

“Edward Drees saw God in everyone around him. He saw His omnipotence and he thought, by killing those people, he’d be killing God.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Will sees Dr. Lecter lift his own tumbler to his nose, inhale, before sipping the whiskey. Will watches the bob of Hannibal’s Adam’s apple before continuing.

 

“But Drees wasn’t just angry; he was sad. He didn’t know what to do with himself after his son died. He was scared.”

 

“Do you feel this same fear resonate in yourself? You told me you know who you are Will. I believe you. But do you know what you would do if you were stop working in the field?”

 

Will sips from his tumbler, lets his tongue bathe in the cold liquid before swallowing. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he murmurs.

 

A pause.

 

Will continues just as quietly, “When I was in Drees’s head, I felt justified killing his victims.”

 

Something heavy hangs in the air, and Will is unable to place his finger on it, choosing instead to rub his sleeve between forefinger and thumb of the hand that isn’t holding his whiskey.

 

Hannibal speaks slowly. “Did you feel as if you were killing God?”

 

“Some part of him. And some part of myself. But foremost, I felt justified,” Will speaks the last words hoarsely. “And then I wondered. I wondered if depravity was something God gave us, or if depravity was an inherent part of God.”

 

Will turns to face Hannibal, drinks in the sight of his skin lit by the fire. “Do you believe in God, Dr. Lecter?”

 

Hannibal’s lips press together and it is a while before he speaks.

 

“If God is real, then he is a reflection of humanity. He is full of depravity and most likely does not care.”

 

Will meant to turn back to the fire at some point, but he keeps watching Hannibal.

 

“Evil begets evil,” Hannibal continues, “If evil exists at all.” Dr. Lecter turns to face Will, his lips turn in a parody of a smile. “And if God is not real, then we are God, and none of this matters.”


	2. two

Will dreams he is standing in water.

 

The frigid waves lap around his ankles, and his toes are buried in the sand. Around him is water, everywhere he looks. Above him, the sky is pale and shivering, and a murder of crows stains the gray clouds. As far as he looks, he cannot tell the difference between the sky and the horizon.

 

The endless malevolence of the air courses quietly and slowly through his veins, and suddenly, as Will scans the horizon, he feels a carnal urge to run his teeth along the spine of the world, feel his fingers against a mountain but all he sees is the sea.

 

He tells Hannibal this the next week he sees him, at his evening appointment.

 

“Interesting,” says Hannibal, and his countenance is politely engaged, legs crossed and hands folded in his lap.

 

Will sits across from him, eyes watching an interesting piece of wallpaper just above Hannibal’s shoulder. “How so, _Doctor_ ,” and Will puts a mocking sort of emphasis on the title. Immediately afterwards he inwardly cringes, wishes to take back his crude words.

 

But Hannibal seems unaffected and remains unmoved.

 

“In the Bible, Jesus is sailing with his disciples on their way to Gadarenes. Jesus sleeps and the disciples encounter a storm. In fear, the disciples wake Jesus, who in turn calms the storm. Afterwards, the disciples are in awe, and say something along the lines of, ‘Who is someone so great, he can calm the seas and the wind?’”

 

Hannibal leans forward.

 

“Do you wish the winds and the sea to obey you, Will?”

 

“As I said before, I wish to see clarity, Dr. Lecter.”

 

“Perhaps, the clarity you feel when you enter the minds of killers?”

 

Will clears his throat. “For a man who doesn’t believe in God, you certainly know a lot about the bible,” he notes, and he leans back in his armchair, lets muscles become slack and carefully wipes the emotion from his face.

 

When Hannibal speaks, his words are clear and lilting. “I was raised in a Catholic home. My uncle was practicing and devout, and as a result, many excerpts remain with me. Even though I was exposed to many religious practices,” Hannibal spreads his hands in an open gesture, “You can see that they have had little influence in my beliefs.”

 

Will allows his head to dip.

 

In the subdued light of Hannibal’s office, Will can see the shadow of Dr. Lecter’s jaw, the way the creases of his thick Windsor knots rest under his throat. They remain in silence for the remaining few minutes of the session.

 

As the clock on Hannibal’s desk clicks to 8:30, Hannibal leads Will to the door with a firm hand on Will’s elbow.  They linger in the doorframe. “Will. I must ask if you would like to accept an invitation to my dining table tomorrow night. I’m planning to have a small dinner party and I’d love to have you come.”

 

“How many is a party?” Will asks, but he sees the answer in Hannibal’s eyes.

 

“The two of us, of course.”

 

“Two’s hardly a party,” Will smiles.

 

“It depends on the company,” Hannibal replies easily and Will only pauses for a moment before saying yes, still feeling the weight of Hannibal’s palm around his elbow.

 

-

 

Wolf Trap, Virginia is unusually cold for this time of year – the air is as crisp as an apple and the chill clamps onto Will's skin like a vice, digging it's canines into Will's bones. 

 

However, as Will chases his dogs through the field behind his house, a slow burn begins to move through Will's body, and by the dogs have completed their fourth lap, sweat begins to pool at the base of his spine, at the nape of his neck. 

 

He whistles at the dogs and tries to pick off the dirt and leaves out of their tails before letting them inside, before sighing and opening the door for them anyway, leaves and all. 

 

His head feels clear and with every hot exhale his chest releases, his breath condensates in the air. The dogs run back inside, nails clattering on wood floor but Will lingers on his back porch, unbuttoning his jacket. 

 

The cold seeps into Will and his head feels clearer outside, away from the constraints of his four walls. 

 

Briefly, he considers taking a quick walk, but decides against it, opting instead to take a warm shower before driving an hour and a half to Baltimore, Maryland, and eating dinner with his quasi-therapist. 

 

In the shower, Will runs a wet hand through his hair, slides his palms over the planes of his chest and wonders if Hannibal showers like a normal human being, or if he only bathes like royalty. Will wonders if it is normal to think about your therapist in the shower and then turns the handle so that ice-cold water slashes his skin. All thoughts about Hannibal quickly shrivel up under the cruel, cold water. 

 

Will digs through his closet to find something more acceptable to wear, finally finding a black lump that, when he unfolds, resembles a suit jacket. He finds his lint roller at the very bottom of his sock drawer, and peels off the top layer, and desperately tries to lint off all of the dog hairs on his newfound coat. 

 

He's in the process of finding a clean dress shirt when his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. 

 

"Hello?"

 

"Heard you have a date tonight Graham, wanna tell me about it?" Beverly Katz's voice is still sharp on the phone and Will allows the smallest of smiles to sneak onto his face. 

 

"I didn't know about this date. Why don't  _you_  tell me about it?"

 

"It's me of course," and Will can almost hear Bev preening. "I got us tickets to the game at 7:00. Wanna come?"

 

Will smiles. 

 

"Sorry, uh, I've got something to do tonight. Maybe another time, Beverly."

 

"Hey, hey," Beverly interjects before Will can hang up. "Do you have an actual date? Will, you have to tell me things like this, I can help –"

 

"See you on Monday," Will chuckles and hangs up. 

 

Dog food clatters into metal bowls as Will prepares to leave Wolf Trap. He sets out enough food for the dogs and fills their bowls with water, makes sure to scratch Buster behind the ears before leaving. His dogs wag their tails as Will locks the back door, an even swishing sound as their tails drag on the floor. 

 

"Hey," Will murmurs as he holds Dakota's head in his arms. "Be a good girl and take care of everyone, alright?" Dakota yips in response and Will feels her pulse on the palm of his hand, steady and slow. The skin underneath her jaw is soft and thin and warm and Will wants to bring her along, but manages to tear himself away, snagging a bottle of wine before starting the long drive to Baltimore. 

 

In the car, Will ponders about the ethics of eating with your psychiatrist. Hannibal's voice fills his head. _I am not your therapist Will, I am your friend_.  

 

He takes 95 to Baltimore and the freeway is full of bright cars. The lights are unusually bright tonight and Will has to avert his eyes from the onslaught of white light from oncoming traffic. He feels uncomfortably warm by the time he pulls up in front of Dr. Lecter’s home.

 

Will wants to pull off his jacket, but keeps it on. He pulls the wine from where he stowed it away and gets out of his car. The cold air fills his lungs and almost immediately Will feels better.

 

On Hannibal’s front step, Will teeters for a moment, clutching the neck of the wine bottle. Ruthlessly, he stamps out his uncertainties and rings the doorbell.

 

Within a few moments, Hannibal swings open the door.

 

“Good evening Will.”

 

Hannibal wears a pale mint dress shirt and a black suit jacket over it, matching silk pocket square tucked neatly into his pocket.

 

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” Will says and as he enters the house, Hannibal moves to take Will’s coat.

 

“I brought wine,” he adds belatedly, and Hannibal hangs up Will’s coat, takes the wine with steady hands.

 

“Thank you. This will go wonderfully with the meal.”

 

“I was…unsure of my presence here tonight,” Will admits in the dining room, where Hannibal sits across from Will, pouring their wine.

 

“Unsure of whether you wanted to be here, or unsure of whether I wanted you here?” Hannibal asks, setting down the wine bottle and unbuttoning his jacket before taking his seat.

 

“A little of both.”

 

“I cannot control your decisions, Will, but let it be known that I will always want you at my dinner table,” Hannibal states, then picks up and raises his glass in toast. Will follows and does the same.

 

They eat, they drink, they talk. The conversation is easy enough and the food is delicious.

 

Once again, Will tries to help Hannibal clear the table, but the doctor insists that Will wait in the sitting room.

 

His glass feels light in his hand, wine swirling a bit every time he takes a step. The skulls on Hannibal’s desk have horns that curve and curl into the air. He runs his palms over them, skims his thumb over one of its jaws and thinks of Dakota.

 

“One of the earliest examples of human art is an animal pelvic bone carved into the shape of a canine skull. It was thought to house the spiritual essence of a hunted animal, and possibly functioned as a mask for the user to wear,” Hannibal’s voice carries through the room, and Will pulls his hand off the skull, turns to see Hannibal walking towards a plush armchair.

 

“A caricature then,” Will muses. “Instead of using the actual skull of an animal, they used another bone to carve out something that resembled a skull.”

 

“A grotesque sort of exaggeration, most likely so that the skull could fit over the wearer’s head,” Hannibal agrees, and he sits himself down in the chair.

 

Will glances at the skulls on Hannibal’s desk one last time, before picking his way through the room, sitting on the chaise next to Hannibal. 

 

“So often we exaggerate our stories or amplify our feelings that it has now become colloquial,” Hannibal notes, and Will can almost feel Hannibal's voice vibrating in his chest. 

 

Hannibal is less than an arm's distance away from Will, but he feels no alarm. Hannibal does not infringe Will's space; he is calm as a statue, never projecting emotions or imposing himself onto Will. 

 

“Do you tend to amplify your feelings?” Will asks curiously, and he turns his face enough to see Hannibal swirling his glass of wine. 

 

Hannibal looks at Will. This close, Will can see flecks of black in his eyes. 

 

“I try to control my emotions as often as possible. What do you see?” 

 

Will maintains eye contact for a moment more, then draws in a sharp breath, turns away. 

 

“With you, it’s more of what I cannot see," Will starts, and outside, rain begins to tap at the window. “You are a pond. On a windless day.”

 

Will sips at his wine before continuing.

 

“You are a reflection of what people around you. You show them what you want to see. You have many acquaintances but few friends. You are serene, but most of the time, politely detached.” Will concludes, “And that’s why I am confused.”

 

“Confused?” Hannibal almost smirks, and if Will were twenty years younger that look would’ve forced all the blood in his brain to travel south.

 

Will allows a small chuckle to escape from his lips, and he starts to shake his head. “From what I can see, you spend most of your time building walls and fortifying your castle. I’m trying to understand why you’re letting me in so easily.”

 

Hannibal pauses ever so slightly.

 

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve subdued my intentions too well. I like you very much, Will and I would like to be your friend.”

 

Will slackens his jaw and lets a long billow of air escape from his lungs.

 

“Why?” he asks, a moment later.

 

“I find you very interesting,” the doctor answers simply. He raises his glass towards Will in a toast, then drains the rest of his wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpt from the Bible is from Matthew 8:27, "And the men marvelled, saying, What manner of man is this, that even men the winds and the sea obey him?"
> 
> The art piece that Hannibal and Will discuss is entitled 'camelid sacrum in the shape of a canine'.


	3. three

Blood.

 

Blood-red, thick, congealing. Warm, viscous.

 

It sluices around Will’s fingers like wine. He is entranced. His fingers are parched and he has found an oasis. Flesh, underneath the blood, soft and pliable. He pushes his fingers further into the wound, tries to find where all of this is oozing out of. It feels so warm, looks so vivid. Will imagines what it will look like on a canvas. On a wall. On his skin.

 

Blood.

 

It smells coppery and sharp. There is a body, Will registers. He sees the curve of a spine, an open jaw. The mouth looks like an open jar, full of paint. Will dips his fingers down the throat and suddenly he wants to run his hands over everything he can find, leave a trail of wet in his wake.

 

“Will.”

 

He feels the outline of teeth and Will wants to yank them out, like pulling weeds out of a yard, plop them into a glass jar, shake them like a gardener shakes his seeds.

 

“Will!”

 

Someone is calling him. Someone is angry.

 

Will is preoccupied. The tightening of flesh around his knuckles is almost obscene, and he hears a small hiss as hot blood hits snow.

 

Snow.

 

“Will!”

 

The ground underneath his knees is cold and unfeeling. He digs his palms further into the warmth. He feels bones and Will wants to build a city from them, wants to live in this body while it’s still warm. Skin catches under his nails and Will clenches – supple flesh breaking so so easily under his strength. Why do they want him to leave?

 

“Will, I need you to come back to me,” a calmer voice. Deep, and undoubtedly not angry. “I am going to take your arms now, Will. I am not going to hurt you.”

 

Doctor Lecter.

 

He feels so _cold_.

 

“Will. I need you to come back to me.”

 

Why does the doctor want him to leave?

 

Abruptly, he feels heavy hands on his arms, one on his shoulder, the other on his elbow.

 

Two’s hardly a party.

 

“Will.”

 

Will gasps and his eyes fly open.

 

He sees the blue of Hannibal’s shirt first and his hands reach for it instinctively. He burrows his face into Dr. Lecter’s chest, searching underneath his tie. The smell of Hannibal’s distinct cologne immediately washes over him and Will breathes in greedily. He thinks he hears a collective muttering from around him.

 

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs into the curve of his ear. “Can you tell me what happened?”

 

“Couldn’t get out of his head,” Will thinks he says, but he talks into Hannibal’s shirt and the words are muffled.

 

“Excuse us for a moment, Jack,” Hannibal says louder this time, and Will feels himself being pulled up, led away.

 

Belatedly, Will remembers that they are in Sykesville, Maryland, working on a case that Jack had called him out for.

 

One body, found in the outskirts of town, eagle-spread. Blood had been found everywhere around it, signs of mutilation. Similar circumstances to another body found a week before, in a neighboring town. Will remembers closing his eyes, hearing the pendulum swing.

 

Hannibal has a hand splayed on Will’s back, leading them away from the swarm of FBI investigators, and where Jack stands, ram-rod spine and anger simmering in his gut. Will can sense it from here.

 

Snow crunches under their shoes as the pair have made enough distance so that no one from the crime scene can overhear. Hannibal’s eyebrows are slightly furrowed; his face reads openly concerned.

 

The trees in the surrounding area are leafless and spiny. The sky is cloudy and the cold air slices Will’s lungs. He welcomes the chill; it clears his mind.

 

“I feel fine now,” Will says after a moment, and his voice is steady. “I just couldn’t get out of his head.”

 

Hannibal’s hand remains on Will, and Will thinks that he likes it there, a warm reminder that grounds him to the present. They stand behind the wide girth of an oak tree, obscured from the prying eyes of FBI workers.

 

“I – I don’t know what happened,” Will says, rather lamely. “And, why are you here?”

 

Hannibal still seems concerned. “Jack called me forty-five minutes ago, and told me you were in a catatonic state. He requested I come immediately.”

 

“And your afternoon appointment?”

 

“Jack was quite adamant. And,” Hannibal adds, “As your friend, I care for your health and wellbeing.”

 

“Thank you,” is all Will can think of, and when he breathes heavily, he can smell vestiges of Hannibal’s cologne.

 

“Are you well, Will?” Hannibal asks. “If we were to return and say that you had a mild dissociation, but were ready to continue working, I think Jack would believe you. However, I do not think it would be in my best judgement to allow you to continue in this state.”

 

Will laughs.

 

“Jack would let me keep working if I were half-dead, if I said I were to continue.”

 

Will’s bare hands are quivering, and he is drawn to the sky-blue color of Hannibal’s shirt.

 

“I can drive you home, if you wish,” Hannibal is speaking, but Will is twisting his hands into Hannibal’s lapels, stepping close. He can feel the heat of Hannibal’s body through his three-piece suit, and he craves more. Hannibal falls silent.

 

“You told me you’re letting me through your walls. Does this count as going through your walls?”

 

“The cold has made you bold, Will,” Hannibal says neutrally, but Will sees the provocation in his eyes, and feels Hannibal slide both hands onto Will’s waist.

 

“I’ll be the stone that breaks the serenity of your pond,” Will says bluntly, and leans in to kiss the smile at the corner of Hannibal’s lips.

 

Will can feel the material of Hannibal’s coat crinkling under his hands, but he already ruined Hannibal’s shirt anyway, so might as well do the set. He feels the hands on his waist, clenching, and most of all he feels the hotness of Hannibal’s mouth, the barest hint of his teeth, and the slow drag of his tongue.

 

“Jack is waiting for our return,” Hannibal says, when he pulls away, and Will lets out a long sigh.

 

“I’d much rather not,” Will admits, and tucks his face into the dip of Hannibal’s clavicle, where the smell of his cologne pools.

 

“I shall see you tonight Will. I will make you dinner.”

 

“Oh, will you?” Will is teasing, and he slides his hands down Hannibal’s lapels, attempting to smooth them.

 

“I will,” Hannibal says simply, and if Jack weren’t waiting for them, Will would’ve kissed the smirk off his face.

 

Jack waits by a pool of coagulated blood, face stony. He cuts an impressive figure, dressed in all black and stark against the white backdrop of snow.

 

“I’m fine Jack,” are Will’s first words.

 

Jack gives him a long look before saying anything.

 

“I believe you,” the head of the behavioral sciences says slowly, “But I want you to go home. Take a rest, and I’ll see you early tomorrow morning in the BAU. Get ready to work, Graham.”

 

“As if I haven’t been working,” Will mutters to Jack’s retreating backside, and he feels Hannibal place a placating hand on his back.

 

“I trust you are well enough to drive home alone?” Hannibal says lowly, and Will nods.

 

“I’ll see you tonight.”

 

“Until then.”

 

-

 

Will manages to feed his dogs, shower and rummage through his closet to find a black tie he knew he had somewhere. He does not manage to finish replying to all emails from his students; instead, he fusses over how he ties his tie, tries to comb his hair. 

 

In the shower, Will turns the knob to spray knives of cold water, cleans his body efficiently and gets out two minutes. 

 

Dakota and Buster growl over who gets the last piece of jerky in their bowl, and Will ends up refilling the whole thing again. He lingers in his doorframe, thinking of a packet of lube stashed in his drawer. Before he can stop himself, Will runs upstairs and grabs it, stuffs it in his pocket.

 

In the car, tendrils of anticipation grip Will's gut. It's been a long time since he's even thought of entering a relationship, and even longer since he thought of a man like that. 

 

All the same, Will makes it to Hannibal's doorstep intact, free of dog hair on his clothes and black tie successfully tied. 

 

He hesitates only for a moment this time, before ringing the doorbell. 

 

“Will,” Hannibal says warmly, not a moment later, and the doctor snags Will by the tie, pulling him in for a swift kiss. Hannibal's lips press onto Will's dry ones for a heartbeat before he pulls away. “Come in. It's cold inside.”

 

“How terribly forward of you, doctor,” Will quips, but he can feel a blush rising in his cheeks. 

 

“I wouldn't want you to mistake my intentions,” Hannibal says smoothly, leading Will into the dinner room. 

 

Will takes his place at the table. An odd sort of fondness stirs in his chest. While he waits for Hannibal, Will is unsure of what to do with his hands and eventually just folds them into his lap. 

 

“Tonight we are having oyako donburi,” Hannibal announces as he brings in two trays of steaming bowls. “A Japanese meal served over rice with a clear broth. Chicken and egg cooked in a sauce, then topped with scallions and soy sauce.”

 

Hannibal places the rice and soup in front of Will then proceeds to fill teacups with an aromatic tea. 

 

“Traditionally, most meals in Japan are served with hot tea. Tonight, we are drinking green tea.”

 

Thick slices of pale chicken rest on a nest of white and yellow egg, garnished with what looks like sesame seeds and dried seaweed. Will can see rice peeking out from underneath the egg.

 

“Smells wonderful,” Will muses. “As always,” he adds as an afterthought, and is pleased when Hannibal smiles. 

 

The rice is warm and light, and the chicken is tender and tasteful. The meal goes down easily with the hot tea, and Will finds himself unusually comfortable, especially with no alcohol in his system.

 

“In Japanese, oyako donburi translates literally into 'parent and child,'” Hannibal adds lightly. 

 

Will is surprised at the short laugh that escapes his throat. “How surprisingly apt,” he chuckles, as he places said parent and child into his mouth. 

 

Will is swallowing a mouthful of hot tea when Doctor Lecter speaks.

 

“Would you like to talk about what happened at the crime scene yesterday?” he asks casually, as if they are discussing the weather.

 

Will scoffs. “Not particularly. Unless of course, you’re talking about when I ravished you behind a tree.” Will rubs his fingers on his napkin. “I wouldn’t mind talking about that.”

 

A half-smile tugs at Hannibal’s lips.

 

“How did you feel, when you entered this killer’s mind?”

 

Will runs his palm over his cheek, feels the scratch of his beard against his skin.

 

“I felt… safe. I didn’t want to leave.”

 

Hannibal is still, eyes dark and intense.

 

“This killer wasn’t killing out of spite or anger. He didn’t have the usual motives. He killed for – for himself.” Will remembers feeling strangely comfortable, warm and anchored.

 

“He didn’t see his victims as people – he saw them as vessels. Or homes, for that matter. He was obsessed with the heat of the victim, the – the _aliveness_. He wanted to live within their homeostasis.

 

“I was stuck because I felt safe. I felt warm, I didn’t want to leave.”

 

“Do you think you require this stability in your own life?”

 

Will drops his hands into his lap and looks at Hannibal.

 

“Are you offering it to me?” Will smirks.

 

“An unusual exchange,” Hannibal muses, and his eyes are glinting. “You, as my object of fascination. A breaking of the serene of the pond, as you put it. And I, as your warmth. Your anchor.”

 

“You make it sound as if you’re fostering codependency, Hannibal.”

 

“Are we not?”

 

“Not yet,” Will says.

 

Hannibal is calm, contemplating. “Finish your dinner Will. I have dessert waiting in the kitchen.”

 

On a platter, jelly shaped into petals have been arranged into the shape of a flower. Each petal has an actual flower set inside the clear gel.

 

“Sakura kanten jelly,” Hannibal describes, and they sit on Hannibal’s chaise longue in his sitting room. “Cherry blossom infused jelly with a blossom inside.”

 

“Mhm,” Will manages around the piece he has in his mouth. “The best jelly I had as a kid was a plastic cup of green Jell-O.”

 

“Jack wants me to go in tomorrow,” Will says a while later, after they’ve finished their desserts. He stands by the window, one hand clasping the olive curtain.

 

“And how do you feel about that?”

 

Will shrugs. “Indifferent. I feel fine. It’s just at the BAU. Price and Zeller will pull up some reports and I’ll tell Jack about the profile.”

 

Hannibal is quiet for a moment. “I think you do not realize the extent of your talent, Will.”

 

“I wouldn’t call it a _talent_.”

 

“Nevertheless, you have a peculiar inclination. It is natural that certain people are drawn to you.” Hannibal stands and brushes nonexistent dirt off of his suit pants. He walks over to where Will is standing.

 

“Are you certain people?”

 

“Of course,” Hannibal says easily, and brings his palm to Will’s cheek.

 

Will lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Abruptly, he wants more. So much more. He grabs onto Hannibal’s lapels, kisses him hungrily.

 

Their teeth clack and Will is ravenous. Hannibal’s lips are smooth and full, his tongue flicking enticingly into Will’s mouth. Will feels Hannibal run his hands down the curve of his spine, resting on his waist, clenching bruises into his hipbones.

 

A small noise tears itself out of Will, and Hannibal rumbles in response, pushing Will towards the wall. A hint of teeth tease Will’s bottom lip, and Hannibal slips his thigh in between Will’s legs.

 

With this, blood rushes to Will’s dick and he’s half hard in his pants. His backbone is pressed to

the wall, his hands fisted into Hannibal’s coat.

 

“You are not my stability,” Will manages to hiss into the space between their mouths. He places one of his hands over Hannibal’s, guides it to his belt. “I am doing this because I want you.”

 

Hannibal’s hand flicks open Will’s belt deftly. “I expected nothing less.”

 

Will claims Hannibal’s mouth before he can say anything else, and Hannibal’s hand slips under Will’s button-up, fingers smooth and sure, sliding up Will’s chest. With his other hand, he pops the buttons of the shirt.

 

“Hannibal,” Will whines. And Hannibal drags his mouth down Will’s cheek to his neck, leaving a slick trail. He mouths at a piece of skin at the dip of Will’s neck.

 

“Shall we take this into the bedroom?” Hannibal murmurs and his voice is low and gravelly.

 

"I have lube in my pocket,” Will supplies helpfully.

 

Hannibal lets out an honest-to-God growl and Will is fully erect, his cheeks flushed. Somehow, they make their way to the chaise. The back of Will’s knees hit the seat, and he folds backwards.

 

Hannibal leans over him, licks his way into Will’s mouth while simultaneously pulling off Will’s shirt. “You are too hard to resist, my dear Will,” he murmurs and Will writhes underneath him, shimmies out of his pants.

 

-

 

Will’s body is a provocation – his chest sweaty and flushed, his legs spread against the leather of Hannibal’s chaise, his cock an angry line. Hannibal feels the first stirrings of arousal simmering in his body, and Hannibal lets it flood him, tightening his limbs and filling his cock.

 

He reaches into Will’s pants, fishes out the packet of lube, rips it with his teeth. Will leans all the way back, and Hannibal stands in the space between his legs. He slides off his coat and takes off vest, then leans in to run his tongue across Will’s open mouth.

 

“Of course you would rip it with your teeth,” Will groans and Hannibal laughs, a rumble in his throat. He slicks his hands, runs his fingers up Will’s thighs before pushing against the tight ring of muscle there.

 

“Haven’t done this for a long time,” Will mutters, pulling his legs up. His thighs frame the pretty puckering of his whole, pink and tight. Hannibal’s erection twitches. “If you feel discomfort, let me know and I will stop.”

 

Will hums in response, and runs his hands over Hannibal’s pectorals, unbuttoning his shirt.

 

Will feels unbelievably tight around Hannibal’s finger, his body hot and tense. “I’m not porcelain, Hannibal,” Will mutters, and Will snakes his hands around his thighs, pulling his hole farther apart with his fingers. “Come on.”

 

Hannibal slides in another two fingers and he revels in the heat of Will’s body. “Look at how you open up for me,” Hannibal croons, and Will whimpers.

 

“Please,” Hannibal hears him say, and crooks his fingers, feels his middle finger brush against Will’s prostate.

 

Will cries out, throws his head back and the lines of his throat are so pale. Hannibal wants to bite a ring of bruises into his neck. _Another time_ , he tells himself. Desire hums through his veins and Hannibal revels in it, lets his chest flush and feels sweat dripping down his spine. Slowly, he pulls his fingers from Will and the man hisses.

 

Hannibal untucks his belt leisurely, pushes down his boxers and underwear.

 

His cock is curved towards his belly in a dark line, small bead of precome oozing from the tip. On the chaise, Will whines lowly. “Patience, dear Will,” Hannibal says fondly, and he wonders when Will had gotten so far behind his walls.

 

Hannibal holds his cock firmly in his hand, pushes into Will slowly.

 

The outline of Will’s ribs press against his skin, heaving with every breath, and Hannibal bends over to lick the dip between Will’s ribs. His skin tastes faintly of sweat and Hannibal controls his urge to bite, to mar, to claim.

 

“Please,” Will whispers again, and Will twists his legs around Hannibal’s waist, uses his ankles to push Hannibal forward.

 

Will groans at the intrusion, and Hannibal inhales slowly, savoring the tightness of Will, the slide of his thighs around Hannibal’s waist. Will pants, stomach clenching, throwing his head back and taking himself in hand.

 

Hannibal’s hips linger for a moment more, then he slides fully into Will, eyes roving over the planes of Will’s chest, the pillar of his throat. His hands travel over Will’s skin, insatiable.

 

Arousal is a sea, roaring in his limbs, loud in his ears and Hannibal acts on his urges, driving into Will, mouthing a hickey onto his collarbone.

 

Will moans heedlessly, one hand pumping himself and the other fisted in Hannibal’s hair.

 

“Will,” Hannibal hisses into his ear, and the muscles in Hannibal’s stomach clench. His hands squeeze Will’s hips, and in the back of his mind, Hannibal thinks that Will’s body will wear bruises like medallions tomorrow. Hannibal comes with his teeth on Will’s skin, nails in his flesh and cock slamming against Will’s prostate.

 

“Hannibal,” Will groans a moment later, and he’s pumping himself mercilessly, milking the come until it squirts onto his chest in ribbons.

 

The carnal desire in Hannibal’s body subsides to a warm simmer, and he thrusts lazily a few more times, sliding in and out of Will smooth as butter. His hips stutter once, then his limp cock slides out from Will’s body. He stays in that position for a minute, breathing evenly, before he kisses the crown of Will’s head, mouthing at the damp curls.

 

Satiated, Hannibal gets up to snag a box of tissues from his desk, wiping himself and Will’s pliant body clean. Will’s eyes are wide, mouth slack. He watches Hannibal like an owl.

 

Then, Hannibal folds himself into the corner of the chaise, leaning against the back and Will situates himself in Hannibal’s lap, so that the knobs of his spine press into Hannibal’s belly.

 

Will’s long limbs remind Hannibal of a foal, coltish and thin. Hannibal presses his lips into the nape of Will’s neck, mouthing absent-mindedly. Will smells of salt and arousal. Hannibal snakes a hand into Will’s lap, palming at his flaccid cock and brushing his thighs. Will is quiet, and Hannibal can feel his blood pulsing in his neck.

 

And then, “Jack Crawford will think I’m unstable now, after what happened yesterday.”

 

“Are you?”

 

“I am being pushed,” Will says. “He is pushing me to save lives. He is pushing me to you.”

 

“And here you are, with me,” Hannibal notes, pulling gently at the skin of Will’s balls, rubbing circles into his thighs.

 

“Jack wanted you to be my stability. For when he couldn’t be there for me,” Will admits slowly. “But you aren’t my stability,” he grinds out.

 

“You are with me because you want me,” Hannibal repeats obediently, wishes that he could bottle the scent of Will’s skin. The room is quiet again, save for the undulation of their hearts.

 

“We are two separate entities, you and I,” Hannibal says finally. He feels Will’s chest moving as he breathes and Hannibal would like to hold his beating heart one day.

 

“For now,” Will answers.


	4. four

Two bodies.

 

One female, one male. Both crusted in copious amounts of dried blood, covered in lacerations.

 

“Talk to me,” Jack commands. His arms are crossed over his black suit, expression stoic.

 

The lights of the BAU are too bright for Will, even with a searing cup of coffee in his hand. His clothes feel uncomfortably tight and the hickey on his collarbone itches.

 

“Meet Denise Ellis and Marc Galban. Ms. Ellis died of a sudden cardiac arrest and Mr. Galban died from a gunshot,” Zeller starts. “Galban is the one we found yesterday,” he supplies.

 

“The woman was found one week ago, outside of Westminster. Camping by herself, found dead in the woods,” Beverly states.

 

“The funny thing is,” Price steps forward, “Both of them have similar post-mortem injuries. Lacerations from the same pocket knife, but in different patterns.”

 

“The patterns seem pretty arbitrary,” Beverly adds, “This killer didn’t care about where the wounds would be.”

 

“No,” Will says finally, and he closes his eyes, revels in the darkness. “The first one wasn’t a victim. The killer found her, and he – he wanted to see what happen. He wanted to know what she would feel like. The second one, the second one he killed because he wanted more.”

 

Jack makes a contemplative noise. “So the first one, was a taste. The second one was premeditated. Does he kill them because he likes killing?”

 

“No he doesn’t see his victims as people,” Will says again, remembers telling Hannibal this over dinner. “He likes their bodies. Not in a sexual way, but he wants the warmth that they give him.

 

“You’ll be looking for someone who maybe was in a foster home, wasn’t loved. Mid-twenties to thirties. They’ll live in Westminster, or somewhere around it, by themselves now. May have Asperger’s or – or something on the spectrum. Maybe PTSD, or something that’d trigger something in them.” Will shakes his head. The light is still achingly bright. “Can I go now?”

 

Jack deliberates and all Will can think of is Hannibal’s lips at the back of his neck, his hands roving over his body. “Fine.”

 

And before the word is half way out of Jack’s mouth, Will’s on his heels, striding out of the room.

 

“Hey. Will,” someone calls out.

 

Beverly.

 

Will halts and turns.

 

She’s got a devious look on her face and Will aches to be out of the building.

 

“So how was that date, huh?” She tugs on his arm meaningfully and they walk out together.

 

“Fine,” Will says, offering no more.

 

“Am I gonna meet this mysterious woman anytime soon? Or man,” she amends.

 

“The latter,” Will admits and Beverly tights her grip on Will’s arm.

 

“When was your last date?” she invades and Will feels tendrils of fondness in his gut.

 

“Yesterday.”

 

“Dinner and the whole deal?”

 

“Something like that,” and at this Beverly grins.

 

As he heads to his car, he hears her call out, “I’ll be calling soon, Graham. You can’t be wearing plaid to all of your dates!”

 

-

 

Moonlight slices a thin arc onto the ground in front of Will's porch.

 

He sits in a wooden chair, his dogs scattered around him. Winston lies closest to his feet, body curled into a comma. In his hand, Will holds two fingers of whiskey.

 

The night is restless.

 

An evening breeze rustles the trees around his yard and somewhere, a bird caws. Will's foot taps absent-mindedly and Winston's tail thumps with him. His thoughts are a slow stream, memories rippling.

 

He remembers two twin girls in his middle school, Amalia and Annaliese, with tinkling laughs that sounded like glockenspiels and peach-colored lips. He remembers his father teaching him to fish, wrapping wires until his hands were raw. The taste of sea salt in the wind and on his tongue, when he spent a summer in Grand Isle, Louisiana. Stubby nails creasing paper airplanes to fly in his backyard. Will thinks that he will make jambalaya soon.

 

Dakota's nails clatter on the porch as she suddenly rises, pads over to where Winston rests. She sniffs him once, and plops down next to him.

 

Will shifts in his seat.

 

He rubs at the hickey on his collarbone and tries to tamp down the emotions that the movement elicits. Will recalls the soft curve of Hannibal's palm around his cock and promptly a carnal desire clenches his gut.

 

His skin flushes and suddenly Will feels unbearably warm, even in the coolness of the night. He opens the door, and lets the dogs inside, following closely after.

 

-

 

Beverly texts Will the next morning.

_You home? I want to stop by_

 

_yeah_

 

“Smells like a party in here, Special Agent Graham,” is her greeting as Will lets her into his house. “What are you cooking up?”

 

“Just jambalaya,” Will says, and as they walk into his kitchen, he hastily kicks a half-chewed tennis ball and tattered rope under the couch.

 

“Hey buddy,” Beverly croons, as Buster trots up to meet her. She crouches down to pet him. “Thought I'd stop by to see if you were doing okay. You okay?”

 

“I'm fine,” Will says and Beverly hums in agreement as she peeks into the roiling pot. “This certainly smells fine,” she quips.

 

“Yeah, uh, did Jack send you?”

 

“Nope.” She pops the p with her lips. “Just checking up. And here you are, feasting without me.”

 

“You know, for some reason half of the department thinks I can't cook for myself,” Will remarks, as he pulls two bowls out from his cabinet.

 

“You're a man of many wonders, Will,” Beverly says. She ladles a healthy serving for each of them. “Gonna save any for your boyfriend?”

 

“Thinking about it,” Will mutters, mostly to himself. He swats at Winston, who is sniffing eagerly.

 

“Mhm,” Beverly says around a mouthful of chicken and rice. “This stuff's gold, Will, he'll eat it right up.”

 

Will lets out a harsh chuckle, thinks of Hannibal's finesse in the kitchen. “I don't know about that one, he's a pretty picky eater.”

 

Beverly lets out an amicable noise. “Gotta tell me more about this mystery man, Will. I'm in the dark here.”

 

The scent of Cajun seasoning bursts in his mouth as Will chews. Immediately his mind is flooded with old memories.

 

“He's different,” Will starts, "Different from anyone I've ever been with. But – ” Will inhales deeply here, “I feel... secure.

 

“I want him. He wants me. I feel, invigorated. It's a distraction from work. It's something – something I can look forward to.”

 

“That's good,” Beverly says, her head slightly tilted. “Just. Make sure he's good for you.”

 

“He is,” Will confirms, and Beverly smiles.

 

Buster yips at Beverly's ankles and Will pretends he doesn't see her slip him a piece of sausage.

 

“Jack's worried about you,” Beverly says a moment later. “He wants to know if you'll be okay.”

 

“And yet, he's still insisting I come into work.”

 

“Do you not want to go?”

 

Will shrugs. “It's my job. Doesn't matter if I like it or not.”

 

“But it matters if it's affecting your health," Beverly remarks. "Either way, you should take a break. You work too hard.”

 

“Maybe,” Will acquiesces, and the two of them ignore the lie.

 

“I'm taking a break soon. Going to drive down to Florida, get myself a tan,” Beverly says, placing her empty bowl into the sink.

 

“Jack's letting you?”

 

“It's called sick leave, Will,” Beverly smirks. “I've had enough of Price and Zeller's bickering to last me for the rest of my life; I'm taking a break.”

 

“Mm,” Will agrees.

 

“Hey, feel free to come,” Beverly nudges him. “The more the merrier.”

 

“Unless it's Price and Zeller.”

 

Beverly laughs. “As much as I'd love to stay, I've got an inbox full of emails and dirty laundry that needs to be done.”

 

Will offers to put some jambalaya into a plastic Ziploc container and Beverly half-heartedly refuses.

 

“C'mon Bev, I'm just going to feed it to the dogs,” he insists, and she finally relents, patting his shoulder on the way out.

 

“Next time, come to my apartment and we'll get take out, yeah?”

 

“Of course,” Will promises, and when she's gone the house is just a shell of silence. He stands on his porch for a few minutes more, until his dogs nose at his legs, sniffing his feet.

 

“Alright, alright,” he tells them.

 

Pellets of dog food rattle into the metal bowls that Will sets out. He spoons the rest of the jambalaya into plastic containers, then sets the used silverware into the sink. He's reading emails when his phone buzzes.

 

He's half-expecting a message from Beverly, so when the name on his screen reads, _Hannibal Lecter_ , Will has to double-take,

 

_Are you preoccupied this weekend, Will?_

 

_not yet_ is his reply, and Will gets a response quickly after that.

 

_May I see you today?_

 

_i'll be over around five. is that alright?_

_I'll see you then_ and Will fights the smile that threatens to break out on his face.

 

-

 

Five o'clock finds Will Graham sprawled across Dr. Lecter's bed, skin rosy and livid. Will lies unperturbed and pacified, his cheek mashed into a pillow and his belly pressed into the mattress.

 

Hannibal spoons Will from behind, nose pressed into the nape of his neck.

 

“You love that spot, don't you,” Will mumbles and Hannibal breathes in deeply.

 

“I do,” Hannibal agrees. Hannibal's fingers twirl the tendrils of hair that curl at the back of his neck, soft and thin.

 

Will's cock is pink and aroused, nestled in the sheets. Hannibal runs his other hand over it, and marvels at Will's reaction. His spine bends into Hannibal's body, mouth falling open. Unable to resist, Hannibal places a hand on Will's shoulder, pushes him so that he lies fully on his stomach.

 

Desire lies low in Hannibal's belly and he traces his tongue over the knobs of Will's spine, presses his hands on either side of Will's ribcage. He thinks that Will's bones belong in a museum.

 

“Hannibal,” Will says softly, whining and Hannibal continues his ministrations, sucking bruises into his spine. He mouths at a piece of skin between L2 and L3. Will's flesh is malleable under Hannibal's teeth – but he is careful not to break skin – and Hannibal wishes to pinch Will's skin until blood spurts out, like grapes bursting out of their skin. The pulsation of Will's body is a fine wine, and Hannibal is a connoisseur, waiting for the ripening.

 

And then, Hannibal leans up to capture Will's mouth once again, slipping his tongue into Will's mouth. Will twists out underneath him, and Hannibal feels Will dragging his nails across his back, soft moan melting into Hannibal's mouth.

 

“You are exquisite, Will,” Hannibal murmurs into the curve of his ear, and Will holds himself above Hannibal, tilting his hips just so that Hannibal's arousal brushes the cleft of his ass. Stubble scratches at Hannibal's cheek when Will moves in to nip at Hannibal's neck and Hannibal flexes at the sensation.

 

Will trails his tongue down Hannibal's chest and Hannibal runs his fingers through Will's hair.

 

Eventually, Will reaches Hannibal's cock, seats himself between Hannibal's thighs and grips Hannibal's hips, pinning him to the bed.

 

Hannibal lets his eyes flutter shut.

 

Will's mouth is hot and wet and slick around Hannibal, his hands large and firm. Hannibal's skin flushes, and Will's tongue is an addictive drag against his sensitive skin. Hannibal imagines himself as Tantalus – Will is the cluster of grapes as Hannibal's halo, Will is the water that sluices around his swollen ankles.

 

And when Hannibal opens his eyes again, Will is sitting on his heels, fingers sliding in and out of his hole.

 

“Will,” Hannibal rumbles, and the man reaches out for the hot line of Hannibal's cock, cupping it with one palm.

 

Will is as slick and tight and gratifying as before. And now, his hair is damp with sweat, mouth set with a hard line of determination.

 

Hannibal feels his stomach clenching, his cock quivering and throbbing inside of Will.

 

Slowly, achingly slowly, Will begins to move, shallow thrusts of his hips that have Hannibal's heartbeat palpitating. “Will,” Hannibal supplicates and he thinks he sees a flicker of amusement in Will's eyes.

 

Will bends close to Hannibal, scraping his teeth at the skin dangerously close to Hannibal's nipple. Titillation is febrile and burning in Hannibal's chest; his toes curl at every one of Will's shallow thrusts.

 

“Will,” Hannibal almost growls, and Will hums in acquiescence, pulling his mouth off of Hannibal's skin and shamelessly saying, “Fuck me.”

 

All Hannibal can hear after that is the hammering of his heart in his chest, as he flips their positions, Will pinned to the sheets and Hannibal looming above him. He snaps his hips cleanly and Will shouts as Hannibal digs his nails into the sheets, presses the outline of his teeth against Will's jaw, slams mercilessly into Will's pliant body.

 

Hannibal's breath hitches and his hips falter for a moment as his gut clenches, and then he releases into Will, the serenity of his pool shattered, chest heaving with exertion. He is still for a moment, then takes Will into his palm, stroking him quickly.

 

Will's fingers snag in Hannibal's hair and he drags Hannibal into a filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth and flesh. Will pulses in Hannibal's hand, coming in streaks across his chest.

 

Hannibal presses his lips to Will's temple and thinks that if he is Icarus, Will is the sea, his roaring waves dragging Hannibal down by his pinions.

 

“I feel drowsy,” Will murmurs, and he sounds a little perplexed.

 

“A new post-coital feeling?” Hannibal asks, and his heartbeat is calm. He reaches beside him to take a few tissues, handing one to Will.

 

“I don't normally feel sleepy after sex,” Will admits and his lips are drawn to a pout. Hannibal wants to draw him one day.

 

“Perhaps you've never been fully engaged in the acts with your previous partners,” Hannibal offers, and he takes the dirty tissue from Will, tosses them into the small trashcan by his dresser.

 

Will lets out a small puff of air, and burrows into the blankets. “Are you saying you think I disassociate during sex?”

 

“Did you?”

 

“It was one time,” Will protests and Hannibal feels tendrils endearment in his belly.

 

The sweat on Hannibal's body begins to cool, leaving his skin slightly chilled. He slides under the blankets next to Will, drapes an arm over Will's waist.

 

“Will you stay the night?” Hannibal asks.

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“I have no oppositions to the idea.”

 

Will emits a contented hum. His hair is splayed underneath his head, dark black in juxtaposition to the white of Hannibal's pillows. His eyes are closed and Hannibal tightens his grip on Will's iliac crest, never wants to let go.


	5. five

Dakota sits on her haunches in Will's backyard, head cocked to the side and tail sweeping in the snow.

 

“Dakota,” Will calls, and his voice echoes like he's in an empty auditorium. “Dakota, please, come inside. It's cold.”

 

Dakota's tail swishes. She barks and it sounds as if she is underwater.

 

Winston leaps from his place by Will's feet, bounding happily into the snow.

 

“Winston!” Will tries to shout but it sounds like a whisper.

 

Abruptly, Dakota gets up, snarling at Winston.

 

“Hey,” Will tries to interject.

 

Everywhere his clothes are touching his skin, Will itches. Every thread of fiber feels like a whip and his nails chase across his skin like howling wolves, leaving trails of red in his wake. His breath is stuck in his throat and his head buzzes. His lips are cracked and his skin feels so dry.

 

Dakota is smart but Winston is bigger, and he clamps his jaws onto Dakota's scruff easily

 

“Hey!”

 

Dakota whimpers and Will sees Winston's nails digging into the Dakota's flesh. Winston's jaw is a vice and he thrashes wildly. Blood spurts onto the white snow in a comical arc, and Dakota falls limp.

 

The dream shifts.

 

Will sits in a chair in his classroom at Quantico Academy. All the lights are on and Will's head aches.

 

Beverly sits at his desk, where he normally teachers. There's a glass of milk in her hand and she appears to be talking to him, but he cannot hear anything she says. Her hair is dark and inky in the light. She looks pale. Beverly frowns, and the ugly expression contorts her face. She dissolves into Alana, who is also displeased. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are flushed. Will wants to ask her what is wrong. Her lips are moved animatedly, and her hands are balled into her hair.

 

Alana shifts into Jack, who is angry, then into Price, and then Zeller. Will blinks and they disappear. He is alone.

 

He blinks again and Hannibal is smiling at him. They are sitting in his office, but all the lights are off. The fire is crackling in the fireplace. Hannibal's eyes look maroon. Will watches him, but Hannibal does not attempt to speak. Will could almost sigh in relief.

 

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal says clearly, and then he morphs into Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

 

“See?” Hobbs' mouth is twisted and Will shakes his head.

 

“See?” says Hannibal.

 

“The sea promises erasure, Will. See?”

 

Sunlight refracts into Will's dream and when he turns, the curtains of Hannibal's office shift into white cotton sheets.

 

The light comes from between cracks in Hannibal's drawn curtains. Will's hair feels damp against his pillow. He turns and sees Hannibal.

 

The doctor's hair looks soft and ruffled with no product in it. It almost falls into his eyes and Will is tempted to touch it. Hannibal's lips are pink and his mouth is slack in sleep. Will thinks that he feels something akin to affection in his chest.

 

He watches Hannibal for a minute more, then falls prey to the tantalizing allure of sleep.

 

-

 

When Will wakes a second time, it takes him a moment to remember where he is.

 

There's an indentation in the sheets of where Hannibal was before, and now as Will runs his fingers over the space, he feels the last vestiges of warmth Hannibal's body left.

 

His limbs feel oddly rested and Will pulls the sheets back over himself, lazing in the warmth of his cocoon. When Will presses his nose into his pillow, he thinks he can smell Hannibal's cologne.

 

In Hannibal's absence, Will gazes around the bedroom. He is drawn to the deep blues of the room once again, then his eyes flicker over the lines of the fireplace, the mantle. As he stretches, his muscles in his back and thighs twinge slightly, and Will feels slightly sore.

 

He's observing the art pieces Hannibal has hung over the headboard when the smell of coffee wafts through the open door. On the bedside drawer, a digital clock reads 8:30am. Will thinks they might've gone to bed around eleven last night, which meant that Will's slept fitfully for at least nine hours. He lies swathed in the bed sheets for a moment more, then sits himself up, looking for his clothes.

 

Will's black button up and pants are folded neatly in a pile at the foot of the ottoman. He finds his underwear ensconced between them, and a dark bathrobe nearby. Will opts for the bathrobe, over his underwear, tucking his fingers in between its soft folds.

 

He wanders into the bathroom, relieving himself and splashing cold water on his face, running his wet fingers through his hair. His lips are slightly swollen, and when he tugs on his bathrobe, it falls in a neat pile around his feet. Will runs his fingers over the string of suck marks Hannibal decorated his spine with.

 

“Rather impressive work here, Doctor Lecter,” Will mutters under his breath. He watches himself in the mirror for a moment more, fascinated by the way his muscles ripple under the blue-black splotches, before pulling the bathrobe back on and running his hands under the stream of water. As he makes his way out of Hannibal’s bedroom, he snags his phone from his pants pocket, tucking it into his bathrobe.

 

Hannibal's home is dressed in deep, rich colors and Will is entranced as he wanders downstairs, footfalls nearly silent on the carpet of Hannibal's stairs. Light filters into the home through glass windows, and Will hears the low rumble of traffic outside.

 

He finds Hannibal in the kitchen, brewing coffee in a glass contraption. He wears a dark olive bathrobe, hair artfully disheveled.

 

“Good morning,” Hannibal glances at Will as he pads into the room.

 

“Morning,” Will echoes and he leans against the counter.

 

“I hope you've slept well.”

 

“Wonderfully, actually. Haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a while,” he admits.

 

Hannibal smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He slides a steaming cup of coffee across the counter to Will. When Will tries to read his emotions, Hannibal is as calm as a millpond.

 

“Thank you,” Will murmurs, and the smell of coffee is intoxicating.

 

He’s barely finished his first sip when his cellphone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out.

 

“It’s from Jack,” Will says apologetically. “I’ll just be a moment,” he apologizes before leaving the kitchen.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Will,” Jack’s voice is tense. “We found another body. Think it’s the same guy who killed Denise Ellis and Marc Galban.”

 

“And you want me to confirm,” Will gathers.

 

“I’ll send you the address. It’ll be a long drive though; we found the body in Middletown, Maryland. Better get moving,” are Jack’s last words before you hang up.

 

Will stuffs his phone back in the pocket of the bathrobe.

 

“Found another body,” Will announces as he walks back into the kitchen. “They want me to make sure it’s the same killer.”

 

“Are you meeting Jack in Quantico?”

 

Will shakes his head. “Found him in Middletown. Should be about thirty minutes from here,” he says, as he confirms it on his phone.

 

Hannibal muses. “Jack believes that you are in Wolf Trap, yes?”

 

Will glances at him over his steaming cup of coffee. He nods.

 

“I believe we have the luxury of a few extra minutes today,” Doctor Lecter deliberates and Will blinks. “I could use a shower.”

 

Hannibal sets down his coffee and begins to walk out of the kitchen. “I believe it would be more efficient to shower together, no? Save time and water,” he says over his shoulder and Will snorts, sets down his own coffee and follows.

 

In the spacious quarters of Hannibal’s master bathroom, two dark bathrobes are left in a pile by the sink, and steam fills the room as warm water streams from the showerhead.

 

“I rather liked seeing you in my bed yesterday,” Hannibal ruminates and he slathers shampoo into his hair. Will watches the enticing trail of water as it sluices over the planes of Hannibal’s chest, down his stomach and into the thatch of hair at his groin.

 

“And I, in it.”

 

The smell of soap and shampoo fill the glass shower stall. Water condenses on its surface.

 

Will drags his hands through Hannibal’s hair, feels both the warmth of the water and the slick of shampoo. “Let me help you with that,” he breathes, and leans in to press his lips against Hannibal’s in a slippery kiss. Hannibal’s arms wrap around Will’s back, palms pressing into his spine, fingers teasing at the bruises there.

 

Will nudges Hannibal’s lips with his tongue, pushes their bodies until Hannibal rests against the glass of the shower. Warm water runs down their bodies and Will feels himself growing hard against Hannibal.

 

Their bodies move easily, skin slipping across skin as the water eliminates any friction between them. Hannibal’s mouth is cool and Will thinks he tastes the bitterness of coffee. He feels Hannibal’s dick pressing insistently against his stomach, thick and heavy.

 

“As much as I enjoy the leisure of showering in the morning,” Hannibal breathes into Will’s ear after he pulls away. “I believe you have an appointment with Jack Crawford.”

 

“We are not talking about Jack Crawford while we have sex,” Will says firmly, and reaches to tug both of their cocks in his palm in punctuation. Will’s hand is slick with shampoo and the girth of two dicks is just a little more than his palm can fit. But the delicious friction that he begins to engender is delightful, and his toes curl in arousal.

 

Hannibal breathes deeply and reaches down to wrap his hand around Will’s, firmly pumping both of them. Will barely registers the calluses on Hannibal’s hand; all he can think of is the heat – of the water, of the steam, of Hannibal’s hand, his mouth, his cock –

 

“Will,” Hannibal all but purrs into his ear –

 

And Will chokes, clenches his eyes shut when he feels his balls tightening. Hannibal is relentless, pumping both of them mercilessly until Will comes with a shout, hands tangled in Hannibal’s hair. His flaccid cock slips from Hannibal’s grip, and he feels Hannibal continuing to pump himself, until he splatters onto Will’s stomach with a low groan.

 

Water continues to pound onto their bodies, washing away their sweat and fluid. Will breathes heavily into Hannibal’s shoulder, limbs limp.

 

He feels the cold brush of shampoo against his scalp, and Hannibal’s surgeon hands are rinsing his wet hair, clinical and efficient.

 

Will runs his hand over Hannibal’s body, barely scratching at his nipples and Hannibal tightens his grip in Will’s hair, pulling on his curls and running his tongue over the skin of Will’s neck.

 

Hannibal’s heart pulses under Will’s palm. He feels languid and unrushed as he turns off the water, steps out of the shower.

 

He hands a fluffy towel to Hannibal, before taking one for himself, wiping his hair in quick movements.

 

“I shall meet you downstairs,” Hannibal says a moment later, “I trust you have located your clothes?”

 

Will nods, and Hannibal slips out of the bathroom, presumably to his walk-in closet.

 

In the foggy mirror, Will can barely make out the red flush of his chest, the swell of his lips. He dries the rest of his body quickly, then, in the cool of Hannibal’s bedroom, slips on his clothes from yesterday. He glances at the shrouded entryway into Hannibal’s closet, then retrieves his phone, puts it in his pocket and pads downstairs into the kitchen.

 

While he waits, he pours creamer into his coffee, watches the black swirl into the white. Hannibal fits in his home so well, he thinks, sliding neatly in the spaces that it leaves between its four walls. Will wonders if he fits in his home just as well. Probably not, he considers.

 

Hannibal descends the stairs a few minutes later. He wears a dark maroon suit with a black embossed patterning, and a muted paisley tie.

 

“I can drive you there, if you need.”

 

Will sips at his coffee. “You don’t have to,” he begins.

 

“It’d be my pleasure.”

 

“We’d have to leave about now,” Will winces.

 

“No worries,” and Hannibal seems slightly amused. He holds the door open for Will as they exit the house.

 

Wordlessly, they make their way to Hannibal’s sleek Bentley. The leather seats are cool underneath Will’s legs and Will wraps his fingers tighter around his mug of coffee.

 

Liszt plays quietly in Hannibal’s car, and Will feels lulled. Hannibal’s fingers tap on his steering wheel and Will thinks he’ll have to call his neighbor Agnes to have her feed the dogs.

 

Hannibal seems content, and Will watches as he turns on his heater silently. The drive is uneventful and the Bentley hums in agreement. Will’s thoughts are tranquil, and he allows his eyes to flutter shut.

It seems as though Will has just shut his eyes when he feels Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder.

 

Will sits up abruptly. They are no longer in Baltimore.

 

“We are in Middletown, Will. Can you read me the address?”

 

“I – yeah,” he says, pulling it up on his phone. He reads it to Hannibal.

 

“I was out for half an hour,” Will says.

 

“You were peaceful,” Hannibal nods.

 

They pass through the main road, where brick buildings lie squat on either side, past the main hustle of the town.

 

The trees are just beginning to brown, and Will watches as they fly by in the window. They pull into the Maryland National Golf Club’s parking lot, where several FBI cars are parked.

 

“You don’t have to come, if you don’t want to,” Will starts. “I can get Jack to drive me back to your house and I’ll get the car – ”

 

“Will,” Hannibal interrupts pleasantly, and Will nod, unfolds his glasses and puts them on, swallows the last vestiges of coffee before exiting the car.

 

Will asks a passing agent where Jack Crawford is, and the agent waves him in the right direction.

 

The golf course is rather beautiful, with its yellow-scarlet trees and calm ponds. But Will pays them no mind, heading towards the lurid yellow caution tape.

 

Hannibal follows him, and Will feels his curiosity pique.

 

Jack waits for them, watching as they duck under the police lines.

 

“Remember Will, I will be here for you,” Hannibal murmurs, and when Will looks, Hannibal is barely moving his lips. “When you get into dark places, even if you do not need me, I will be here to retrieve you.”

 

“Will. Doctor Lecter,” Jack greets them.

 

“Good morning, Jack,” Hannibal says politely, while Will walks closer to the body.

 

“Not a very good morning for this man,” Will hears Jack says. “A few golfers found his body yesterday, blood everywhere.”

 

Hannibal might’ve said something in response, but Will does not hear. He sees a man lying supine on the ground, grass matted with dark blood around him. His throat is cut. From what Will can see, his shirt was ripped open, revealing lumps of scarlet flesh. Will can see white bone, peeking out from under the blanket of blood.

 

“Killer cut him right in half, using probably a pocket knife. Right there,” Beverly comes to stand next to Will, pointing one latex glove-clad finger at the belly button of the victim, drags it to his chin, “to there.”

 

“Ribs cracked open in an impressive display of strength,” says Zeller from somewhere behind him, and Will hears Price add, “No organs taken though. No mutilations to the face. Just two major lacerations: one to his throat – the one he presumably died of – and one from his gut to his throat, and some minor ones on his thighs.”

 

“He wouldn’t want the organs,” Will mulls over the scene.

 

“Alright,” Beverly says, her tone allowing no argument. “Everyone back up a bit. Give him some space,” and Will makes a note to thank her later.

 

The pendulum swings in a bright arc, and Will allows his eyes to slide shut.

 

_I see my victim. I do not know them, other than the fact that I know I want to kill them._

 

It is dark in the golf course, last stragglers making their way in to go home.

 

_I see one man, golfing by himself. He knows no one else here_. _The sun is low on the horizon; he will not see me coming if I attack now._

Will stands behind an oak tree, obscured in the shadows. He clenches a pocket knife in his hand, with only one intention in mind. The man is bent over his golf cart bag, examining his clubs.

 

Will comes closer, silent. The man does not realize what will happen to him. Will’s muscles are coiled, ready to spring. The man places the last of his clubs into his bag –

 

Will is less than a yard away, his teeth are clenched and there is hunger in his belly –

 

_I am alone, I need warmth I need I need –_

 

The man begins to zip his bag and Will pounces, wrapping one arm around the man’s chest and the other tearing at his throat in a jagged motion –

 

Will feels a spurt of blood as he rips through vocal cords and Will whimpers when it splatters onto his skin. The man struggles for a moment more, before falling limp.

 

_Now, now, now_.

 

The sun slips below the horizon and in the security of the darkness, Will hungers. He turns the man until he lies supine on the floor. Will does not need the light.

 

Blood.

 

Dark, and almost scorching hot. It bubbles from the wound in the man’s throat and Will tucks all ten fingers into the gash, sighs at the warmth. Blood flows over his nails and Will can hear his heart thudding in response – it is so warm, so _alive_ –

 

He yearns for more. He wants to feel it rushing over his body, echoing the pulse in his veins –

 

He clenches the knife in his hand, and drags it from the man’s throat to his groin, hears the soft gurgle in the darkness. Will reaches in and his hands pry open the laceration, spilling blood like water trickling from a fountain. His hands are so warm.

 

Will pushes his palms in further and he kneels over the man, barely registering the fact that he _is_ a man. His wrists are slathered in the blood and he wants to live here.

 

He feels the wall of his home, pushes until he hears a crack and the blood is a blanket, warm in the evening chill, smothering his elbows. He will stay here until all the heat has been leeched from this body. Then he will find another.

 

_This is my design_.

 

Will opens his eyes.

 

Price and Zeller bicker over something to his left, and Beverly stands to his right.

 

“Sorry,” she says, when she’s noticed that he’s woken from his stupor. “I tried getting the to move but you know how they are when they’re arguing. Is it the same guy?”

 

“It’s fine,” Will grimaces. “Yeah, yeah it’s the same guy. Where’s Hannibal?” he asks, glancing around. A few FBI agents mill around the crime scene, but Jack Crawford and Hannibal are nowhere in sight.

 

“They’re talking. In the parking lot.”

 

Will can feel the curious weight of Beverly’s gaze on him. She wants to ask him something.

 

“Thank you, by the way. For – ” Will waves a hand around them. “For whatever you said to get them to give me space.”

 

“Not a problem,” she says easily. And then, “So, Hannibal huh?”

 

Will glances at her, and she has a mischievous half-smile painted on her face. “Was it that obvious?”

 

Beverly’s eyes grow wider. She reaches in to nudge his arm. “Lecter huh? I was teasing you Will, but damn.”

 

Will runs a hand over his face. “It was going to come out sooner or later.” He turns the other way.

 

“Hey hey,” she insists, turning to keep eye contact. “Lecter’s a real hunk, Graham. You got yourself a good one.”

 

“I think he was the one that got me,” Will says dryly. “Don’t tell Price or Zeller, also,” he adds as an afterthought.

 

Beverly scoffs. “As if.” She ruminates for a moment. “I thought you just wanted the doctor here for moral support or something, after what happened last time.” She pauses again before asking slyly, “Did you stay at his house?”

 

Will exhales. “Let’s talk about this not in front of a dead body,” he says.

 

“Gotcha,” she says easily. “Let’s grab lunch tomorrow, huh?” and she pats him on the shoulder. “Still, Lecter.” She lets out a low whistle and waggles her eyebrows at Will before walking off towards Price and Zeller.

 

Will loiters a moment more before heading back to the cars.

 

Jack and Hannibal stand by Hannibal’s car. Hannibal stands straight, expression calm, and Jack is open, chortling at something Doctor Lecter said.

 

“Will,” Hannibal says warmly, as he comes closer.

 

“Will,” Jack echoes.

 

“It’s the same,” Will says to Jack, but meeting Hannibal’s eyes.

 

Jack’s countenance grows somber. He nods. He turns to Hannibal, “Well, I’ll see you later Doctor Lecter. Good talking to you,” and he places a friendly hand on Hannibal’s shoulder before saying to Will, “See you in the BAU bright and early tomorrow, Will,” and striding towards his car.

 

Hannibal remains still, mulling over whatever psychiatrists think about after a conversation, then opens the passenger seat of his car.

 

Will climbs in without question, and after Hannibal closes the door, Will sees him brush the imaginary dust off his shoulder.

 

“The killer has gone farther this time,” Hannibal says after he has gone around his Bentley and situated himself in the driver’s seat. Will pulls his glasses off and rubs his eyes.

 

“He cut his vocal chords first. When he couldn’t call for help, he pinned him down and cut him open, from groin to throat.”

 

“Was the killer in the same mindset as before?”

 

“Yes. But this time, he – he needed. He needed to feel the pulsing of someone else’s blood, maybe to reinforce the idea that he was alive, I’m not sure. But he craves it now.”

 

“A monster with an appetite,” Hannibal observes.

 

“Aren’t they all?” Will asks tonelessly. He watches FBI agents swarm towards the crime scene as more cars show up.

 

“Shall we drive back to Baltimore?” Hannibal inquires. “So you can retrieve your car?”

 

Will nods and Hannibal starts the engine, puts on Chopin.


	6. six

“Can I convince you to stay to lunch?” Hannibal inquiries as they make their way back to Baltimore.

 

“I have a class to teach,” Will winces, and he glances at his phone, “And I’ll have to leave about now,” he says apologetically, as they stop in front of Hannibal’s house. Hannibal nods, and moves to get out of the car. Without thinking too much about it, Will snags the spill of Hannibal’s sleeve before he can open the door.

 

“Thank you,” Will says, before he can stop himself. He’s not sure what he’s thanking Hannibal for, but there’s a glimmer of a smile around Hannibal’s mouth as he moves in to catch Will’s lips between his teeth.

 

Will lets out an agreeable noise, moving in closer and he feels Hannibal’s hand rest on his elbow as they lean over the center console.

 

“I’m making jambalaya,” Will says belatedly, blinking as Hannibal gently pulls away.

 

“I’ll have to come over and try some,” Hannibal catches on easily, smoothing the front of Will’s before unlocking the car.

 

“Can I text you to see when you are free?” Will asks quietly as Hannibal makes his way out of the car, opens Will’s door for him.

 

“And I will come with an empty belly,” Hannibal reassures, running a large hand down Will’s back. “Until then, Will.”

 

And Will nods, makes his way back to his car and starts on the long drive back to Quantico.

 

The drive is monotonous and Will turns on the radio just to have a stream of white noise. His thoughts are quiet and he reaches the FBI academy before he realizes it.

 

His students seem subdued today, and Will lectures tonelessly; all in all, the class is rather pedestrian.

 

As his class ends, his students meander out of the room – sometimes some will stop by his desk on their way out. Today, one student comes up to Will with his hands tucked in his pockets, black hair falling into his face.

 

“Mr. Graham,” he inquires as Will’s pushing his papers into his briefcase. He nods at him, eyes barely flitting to his student’s shoulder. “I sent you an email about a week ago asking if you could go over my paper with me.”

 

His student holds out his paper, and Will takes it, glances at the name. Tom Langley.

 

“Mr. Langley, you’ll find my office hours are posted on the door,” Will states. He glances at the student only find his inky eyes narrowed in displeasure. “Will that be all?”

 

“Yes, thank you. I expect we’ll be speaking again shortly,” Tom says coolly, and Will pops an aspirin as the last of his students exits his room.

 

He picks up another bottle of aspirin on his way home, and the dogs rushing around him as he opens the door. Buster yips at his ankles and Will scratches behind his ears.

 

“Hey there,” he murmurs quietly, then pours more kibble into their bowls. The clattering of paws on Will’s wood floor is a comforting, familiar sound. After feeding them, Will follows his dogs into the backyard, where spends the good part of two hours alternating between chasing his dogs and watching them.

 

When the sun begins to slink from the horizon, Will whistles to bring in his dogs. Inside, Will runs his fingers along Chester’s heaving flank and Pepper curls in his lap as he’s sitting on his couch. He feels rested by the time he’s made it into the kitchen. He heats the last bit of his old jambalaya and eats it quickly, then pulls his left over ingredients from his last batch from the refrigerator.

 

The sausage is cold in his hands when Will moves to cut it into slices. Will watches the way his hands hold the meat, and his mind flits to the way Doctor Lecter prepares his meat with surgical precision, clinical and efficient. Will pauses, holding his knife over the sausage.

 

There are gears in the back of Will’s mind that are beginning to turn – he thinks of Hannibal’s famous dinner parties –

 

Winston barks, and snatches up a piece of sausage that Will has dropped in his reverie.

 

“Shit,” Will murmurs and he scoops up the rest of the sausage, careful not to drop any of it near the dogs, places it into his giant, metal pot.

 

The thought lingers in the back of Will’s mind as the smell of Cajun seasoning fills his home, but Will pushes it back into the dark recess where it came from, unwilling to linger. He’ll think about it later.

 

He calls Hannibal after his rice is cooked, after he’s shooed the dogs into his living room, and Hannibal says he’ll be over.

 

Will shakes his head to clear his mind, finishes cooking off the rest of his sausage.

 

Hannibal stands on his front porch, dogs rushing out to greet him.

 

“Git,” he tells them, and they wag their tails even as they allow Will to wade his way through the crowd of fur, unlock the front door.

 

“Hello,” Hannibal says pleasantly to Will, and then “Hello,” again to the dogs.

 

“They like you,” Will observes as Dakota sniffs at Hannibal’s empty hands.

 

“They are rather intelligent,” Hannibal admits and then he lifts his head. “I smell something delicious.”

 

“That’ll be the jambalaya,” Will smiles as he leads them into the kitchen.

 

The dogs trail after Hannibal, skirting playfully around his bespoke trousers as Hannibal helps Will set the table.

 

“Are these woods largely uninhabited?” Hannibal asks conversationally as they sit down.

 

“Mostly,” Will pours them each a generous amount of wine. “Save for coyotes and rabbits.” Will eyes the dogs sitting around Hannibal’s feet. “The dogs like to chase the occasional squirrels.”

 

“It is a nice contrast from the rush of the city,” Hannibal says. “I find your property very attractive.”

 

“It’s quiet. Except for the neighbors but they live at least a ten-minute drive away.”

 

Hannibal brings a spoonful of jambalaya to his mouth.

 

“Delightful,” he declares a moment later. “You must be my sous chef the next time I host a dinner party.”

 

“It wasn’t that difficult,” Will says modestly and something twinges in his gut.

 

“The woods surrounding this area remind me of a particular folktale I remember hearing as I was growing up,” Hannibal notes.

 

“Oh?”

 

“A rendition of the classic Russian fairytale – the firebird.”

 

Will savors the richness of the wine as it runs down his throat.

 

“A huntsman is roaming through the woods one day – not dissimilar to these – and he finds a beautiful golden mare, wandering alone in the woods.

 

“Shortly afterwards, he finds the scarlet feather of a firebird. The huntsman believes that giving this feather to the Tzar will earn him enough gold to keep him alive through the winter. His mare warns him otherwise, but the huntsman pays no mind.”

 

Outside, the darkness envelops Will’s house, and their shadows grow long on Will’s wood panels. Hannibal’s words are lilting and clear. He tells the story in between bites of jambalaya.

 

“The Tzar does not reward the huntsman for his find; instead he demands that he bring the whole bird to His Royalty, otherwise the huntsman shall be executed. And so, the huntsman is tasked with a perilous goal – to find the legendary firebird.”

 

Hannibal mulls over his wine before continuing. Will sits comfortable in his chair, finishing the last of his jambalaya.

 

“The mare reprimands the huntsman and says, ‘You require my assistance again, but I shall only give it to you if you will listen to what I have to say from now on.’ And the man agrees.

 

“The mare tells him that he must go to the far fields of the town, and sprinkle corn into the grass. At first the man objects; he believes it’ll be a waste of sustenance, but he remembers his agreement. He sprinkles corn onto the grass and waits in one of the trees around the meadow, a net of rope waiting in his hand.

 

“The firebird comes when the sun begins to set, and it’s wingspan is greater than the huntsman could ever imagine. Quickly, he throws the net and captures the bird. Ecstatic, he returns back to the Tzar’s castle to give him the bird.”

 

Hannibal sips from his wine and Will is fascinated by the way the lights bend on the angles of his face.

 

“The Tzar is not satisfied, of course; the greedy, corpulent king is insatiable. He demands that the huntsman procure more treasure and a bride – more gold and more riches for the king to hold. And if not,”

 

“He will be executed,” Will guesses and Hannibal nods.

 

“The huntsman is devastated. He had simply wished for a better life, but instead he finds himself running from a king who wants nothing but a princess and his head. Nevertheless, the golden mare comes to the huntsman once again. She tells him to gather the finest foods of the kingdom and prepare a tent to bring along as they ride.

 

“He rides her far from the castle, per the mare’s instructions, until they reach the edge of the country. The ocean there is vast and stormy, it’s peaks crowned with white foam. On the edge of the sea, the mare stops, and tells the huntsman to set up the tent, and arrange the food.

 

“The huntsman is hungry from riding, and tempted to eat but he does not wish to disobey the mare once again. The tent is decadent and lavish, and the huntsman waits inside.

 

“Soon after, he hears bells ringing. He looks outside to see a princess in full regalia, riding towards him.

 

“‘Good man,’ the princess calls. ‘Can I find some food and drink?’ And of course, the huntsman allows her to all the food he has brought. And then, he asks for her hand in marriage in behalf of the Tzar. She refuses politely, saying that he must first procure her ring from the bottom of the ocean.

 

“The poor huntsman looks to his mare, and the mare nods. The huntsman then plunges into the icy waters, searching for a treasure chest at the bottom of the sea.

 

“He manages to retrieve it, and they ride back to the Tzar. Upon seeing the old king, the princess is disgusted, and refuses to marry. However, before the Tzar calls for both of their heads, the princess is clever, and has a pot of boiling water brought out into the courtyard. She tells the Tzar that it is safe, that the water has magical powers and will turn him young again. The huntsman will bathe in it first, to show the Tzar there is nothing to fear, much to the huntsman’s chagrin.

 

“She gives the huntsman the golden ring, which saves him from dying as he plunges into the pot.

The king, however, is not as fortunate, and burns alive in this boiling water. The huntsman is left to inherit his crown, and the princess becomes his queen.”

 

Both Hannibal and Will are silent in a moment, Will lost in thought and Hannibal reminiscing.

 

“The princess is the hero here, is she not?” Will ruminates.

 

“She is more clever than the Tzar and the huntsman combined.”

 

“A happy ending,” Will muses.

 

Hannibal’s smile is dark. “Of sorts.”

 

They talk for a few minutes more, and Hannibal helps Will clear the table. Will does not ask Hannibal to stay the night, and Hannibal does not ask if Will would like him to. They remain in the kitchen, conversing until Will’s dogs are restless, padding around the kitchen and the living room. Will excuses himself to let them out, and Hannibal notes that it is late, he should get going soon.

 

On the front porch, Hannibal has snared Will’s belt loops in his fingers, dragging him in for a long, slow kiss.

 

“Thank you for a wonderful meal tonight, Will,” Hannibal murmurs and Will feels his fingers tighten around his hip possessively for a moment, before relinquishing.

 

Will stands on the porch and watches the Bentley’s headlights until they fade into pinpricks of light.


	7. seven

“Four profiles that fit your description Will,” Beverly says tonelessly. She places four manila folders onto the counter.

 

Will stands in the BAU. Jack Crawford stands to the side with Price, and Zeller is poking around the body that they found in the golf course. The lights are still too bright for Will’s comfort.

 

“One,” she flips open the first folder. A man with a bland expression stares at Will, his photograph printed in black and white. “With Asperger’s. Recently moved to Westminster, had some trouble with family after his mom died. Lived with his aunt for twelve years.

 

“Two,” A woman with short, ragged hair and pursed lips. “Moved out of Westminster two years ago, but occasionally visits her step parents out in the suburbs.”

 

“Three. This man has lived in Westminster his whole life, reclusive and talking to next to no one. He’s got Tardive dyskinesia.

 

“Four,” Beverly flips open the last folder. “Was a flyer for the Air Force but had a pretty bad crash. Moved back to Westminster and hasn’t left since.”

 

Will deliberates on each file, reading through what Beverly had summarized. His fingers linger on the last file. Tristan Younger, left the Air Force two years ago when he crashed in a practice flight. He imagines the spiral of the plane, the instability of the crash landing –

 

Will imagines how safe another body would feel, how secure Younger felt when there was blood rushing over him, comforting him –

 

He taps the fourth file. “There will be something about Mr. Younger. Something in his clothes. Maybe he burned them, but you’ll find evidence in his house.”

 

Jack steps forward, “You’re sure about this.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

Jack nods to Price and Zeller, who take the folder and head upstairs.

 

Jack clasps Will’s shoulder before following them upstairs.

 

Beverly snaps her latex gloves behind him.

 

“You up for Thai food?”

 

They find a bustling shop sandwiched between a laundromat and a bookstore. People are streaming out of the place, carrying plastic take out containers.

 

“Less people will notice us here,” Beverly says, as Will holds open the door for her.

 

They choose a secluded corner in which the crowd avoids, and no one spares them a second glance. Beverly orders for the both of them before setting down her menu and looking Will in the eyes.

 

“So. Is therapy still therapy or is it something more mutually beneficial?” her tone is teasing but Will knows she means nothing.

 

“It’s surprisingly uncomplicated,” Will grudgingly admits. “We still talk normally, and discuss crime scenes and profiles, it’s just – ”

 

“With some benefit?” Beverly ventures.

 

“He’s good for me,” Will replies. “I’ve found something to look forward to now, when I go into the heads of killers. I can get myself out more easily.”

 

Beverly watches him astutely. Her palms are flat on the table, and she’s leaned back. Her body is open, inviting.

 

“I initiated it,” Will continues slowly, watching a stream of people walk by their table. “He hinted at it before, but after the first crime scene, in Sykesville – ”

 

Will pauses as the waitress comes with two steaming plates of pad thai. Beverly thanks her and they start to eat.

 

“I initiated,” Will repeats, “But I told Hannibal that I didn’t want… codependency or anything like that.”

 

“Is he an outlet?”

 

The noodles are hot in Will’s mouth. He chews carefully.

 

“Of sorts. I just don’t want to depend on him,” Will emphasizes again, and he picks at the chicken in his pad thai. He wants to voice the miniscule doubts in his mind; Will knows Beverly will listen.

 

“What’s eating at you, Will?” Beverly says a moment later, her eyes downcast.

 

“I – I don’t know,” Will admits. “There’s something but I don’t want to think about it. I think – I think I’m bringing profiling and work into this, this relationship I have with him and I don’t want that.”

 

Beverly muses.

 

“You did meet Hannibal through work. It’d be impossible to separate him from that part of your life.”

 

“I’m not trying to compartmentalize,” Will begins, and then pauses. Beverly sees his hesitance, and Will can feel her backing off.

 

“How are your classes?” she asks instead, although Will can sense tendrils of worry in her mind.

 

Will pushes the bean sprouts to the edge of his plate. His mouth begins to form the word ‘fine,’ but he hesitates, thinks about his last class.

 

“Lectures are alright,” he begins tentatively. “I have one rather, persistent student.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“He wants me to read his essay.” Will runs a hand over his eyes. “He wrote about the Ripper.”

 

“Did you assign the topic?”

 

“No, no. It was an essay about profiling. I, uh, asked them to choose someone to profile and support it with evidence. He just, he wants me to go over his essay with him.”

 

Will lets out a short laugh. “To be honest, I don’t even remember assigning the essay.”

 

A soft smile pulls at Beverly’s lips. “He sure is an ambitious student, if he’s brave enough to work up the courage to ask you in person.”

 

Will shakes his head in amusement. “I’ve stuffed the essay in my briefcase. I suppose I’ll have to actually read it before he comes in and corners me about it.”

 

Beverly waves her hand and mimes signing a check. The waitress nods, and emerges with the bill.

 

“I’m thinking of getting a dog,” Beverly says, as they split the bill. “Or do you think I’d be better off with a cat?”

 

“Depends on what type of dog.”

 

“Cat it is,” Beverly nods.

 

“Good luck with that student of yours,” Beverly remarks, as they begin to part.

 

“Good luck with the cat,” Will quips. “And that vacation,” he adds.

 

She pats him on the shoulder and Will walks alone to his car.

 

He drinks a warm bottle of water in the parking lot of the FBI academy. Will feels restless today, and he taps his steering wheel for a few moments before getting out of his car. His classroom is mostly empty when Will begins to set up his projector, but as his students start to filter in, Will recognizes the slim frame of Tom Langley, and Will makes a wary note of where he is sitting before he starts class. Will wonders if he is becoming paranoid.

 

Throughout the lecture, Will is careful to keep his back on Langley’s section of the room, opting to watch his projector screen instead. He feels the cold weight of his eyes throughout the lecture.

 

“That’s all for today. Class is over,” Will says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, the students are a blur, all moving towards the door. All save for one.

 

“Mr. Graham,” Langley says, and his voice isn’t loud, but it is crisp, and carries over the noise of the other students.

 

“Hello, Tom,” Will says, still watching his projector.

 

“I wanted to apologize for my interruption yesterday. I understand you must be bombarded with emails and one out of – ”

 

Will waves his hand in Langley’s direction. “It’s fine, just come in today during office hours and we can talk about your paper.”

 

“No really,” Langley insists, and when Will looks at him quickly, his lips are turned in an easy smile, and his inky eyes are warm. “I felt rather frustrated as well, and I’d like to apologize.”

 

Will nods, offering a tight lipped smile at Langley. Something crawls underneath his skin. Will doesn’t know if it’s Langley or not.

 

“Well, I’ll see you later today, Mr. Graham,” he says easily, and he strides away, leaving Will blinking in his weight. “Hello, Doctor Bloom,” he hears Langley say cordially, and Will glances up to see Alana walking into his classroom as Langley walks out. “Tom,” she says warmly.

 

“He one of your students too?” Will asks, when Tom is out of earshot.

 

“One of the more involved ones,” Alana says, and she runs her hand around Will’s desk. “Very clever.”

 

“Doesn’t really talk much in my class,” Will says offhandedly, pulling off his glasses.

 

“Do you let them talk in your class?” she counters teasingly. “Anyway, he’s very smart. Charming, too.”

 

“Oh?”

 

Alana gives him a look. “Maybe if you talked to your students more, you’d know. He’s very popular among the trainees, and especially among the teachers. Charmed his way into the good books of every teacher he’s ever had.”

 

“Except for me,” Will says.

 

Alana smiles. “Maybe he’ll try you next.”

 

Will lets out a dry chuckle. “We’ll see about that.”

 

Alana deliberates for a moment, an offer hanging on the tip of her tongue.

 

“Are you busy, Will? We should grab some coffee.”

 

Dr. Bloom is very beautiful, and one of the few employees of the FBI that Will feels comfortable around. Perhaps in another life, they could’ve had something.

 

Will waves Tom Langley’s essay in lieu of response. “I have to reread this before he comes and asks me about it.”

 

“And that,” Alana smiles, “Is why I’m glad I am only guest lecturing. I can never imagine teaching.”

 

“Yeah, the papers are the worst of it,” Will moues.

 

“Maybe another time, then,” Alana offers, and Will nods.

 

She leaves under the guise of another lecture, and Will tries not to imagine that she’d be too put off by his declination of her invitation to continue their conversation.

 

Regardless, he makes to his office, pulling out a cold thermos of his own coffee and putting on his glasses as he goes.

 

The halls of Quantico Academy are buzzing with the chatter of trainees and professors alike, mingling in the hall and spilling into the courtyard that Will crosses to reach his office. Sunlight slashes across his face as he walks, and Will keeps his gaze carefully averted.

 

His office is cool and quiet, painted in muted colors that don’t interrupt Will’s thinking.

 

He situates himself in his chair, and pulls out Langley’s paper.

 

His student briefly sketches out a skeleton of a profile for the Ripper, not bothering to go into depth. If it were another killer, Will would be shocked at the brevity. But this is the Ripper, and from all the papers that he’s seen written on him, almost all of them are on the wrong side of the spectrum. In his transient profile, Langley has only set out the truth in what is known of the Ripper. And then, he doesn’t state the reasons for the Ripper’s kills; he has brought together a collection of reasons for the characteristics of Ripper kills rather eloquently, in less than two thousand words. He discusses the Ripper’s actions and motives as possibilities, rather than definitively stating his opinion, as so many of Will’s other students have done.

 

A surgeon is an occupation prone to holding power over others, Langley muses in his paper, and the Ripper’s surgical skill is a reflection of his desire to know, to understand. He is skilled and intelligent like no other, Langley ruminates, and Will finds himself nodding when he reads the paper. If the Ripper is choosing his victims randomly, he kills more for himself than for the victim. The Ripper kills merely because he desires to. Or not, Langley concludes, because he is a psychopath and nothing shall be gleaned about him from his kills until he is caught.

 

It’s quite good, all things considered. Will admits this to himself grudgingly. As he reads, something dances on the tip of the tongue.

 

“Come in,” Will says suddenly, when there is a gentle rapping at his door.

 

“Mr. Graham,” Tom says, as he enters. Will sees that he’s wearing a wool sweater and clean pants, hair pushed back neatly. He can see the grace coiled in Langley’s limbs, the ‘charm’ that Alana had so fondly described. He takes the seat in front of Will’s desk.

 

“Your paper is very interesting,” Will starts, and he pulls off his glasses. Langley is relaxed, but Will senses that his curiosity has been titillated. Evidently, he was not expecting this from Will.

 

Will clears his throat. “When I do not explicitly tell my students whom to write about, at least a fourth of them choose to write about the Ripper, in some way or another.”

 

“He has an infamous reputation,” Langley concedes, and his eyes are so sharp, almost too sharp.

 

“However, I must say that most of them fumble at the shadow of what the Ripper is; they do not understand him clearly enough.”

 

Langley narrows his eyes.

 

“You,” Will gestures at Langley, “Are not one of those students.”

 

Langley hesitates at this, and Will sees him wondering if this is a compliment or an insult.

 

“This paper is short, for an essay of this topic. But it is articulate,” Will muses. “You’ve discussed some possible motives – which I, for one, agree with – but motives and reasoning are only part of a profile.” Will leans forward. “Tell me what you think about the Ripper.”  


Langley’s eyes are calculating, but he breaks eye contact first. Will leans back in his chair. Langley begins slowly.

 

“If the Ripper is an organ reaper, then he kills with that motive in mind – he harvests organs and sells them on the black market, or perhaps, keeps them for himself, but either way – his purpose for killing is clear. If he is not reaping the organs to sell, then I believe it is much more complicated to profile him.”

 

Langley hesitates here.

 

“We believe the Ripper is a surgeon, or he has extensive surgical knowledge,” he says tentatively, and Will affirms this with a nod. “As such, surgeons have power over others.”

 

“Psychopaths are attracted to power,” Will murmurs, and Langley dips his head.

 

“But the dilemma, is that his victims are chosen randomly. If it were a power obsession, the Ripper would be killing more influential victims. It is possible that killing alone would relieve the Ripper of this hunger for power – ”

 

“But not probable,” Will agrees quickly. “The power isn’t a part of his design.”

 

“Then, the careful decoration of his victims is not simply theatrics; he is mocking his victims. He isn’t just peacocking; he wants to dishonor the dead. And so, I believe the Ripper dislikes his victims. The killing is not a hateful act, it is – it is killing because he dislikes them and because, well, he _can_.” Langley’s eyebrows furrow. “Ethics and morality do not apply to the Chesapeake Ripper. He believes he is above his victims. So why would he take their organs? Certainly not to honor them.”

 

Will breathes shallowly here, and he’s anticipating Langley’s words before they leave his lips.

 

“What better way to shame his victims than to – ”

 

The door to Will’s office swings open. Jack Crawford’s imposing figure strides through. “Will, we need you.”

 

Will’s thoughts collide and he blinks. “Jack, now is not the best time – ”

 

“Will, now,” the man says meaningfully. He looks at Langley. “You can leave now. Mr. Graham will talk to you later.”

 

“Of course,” Langley says politely, tucking in his chair as he leaves.

 

“Langley, I want to talk to you later,” Will calls after him, stuffing his paper into his pocket. “What is it Jack?” Will asks, and annoyance surges in his gut. He’d been so close.

 

“Will, we found him. Tristan Younger’s in custody right now, found the blood of Denise Ellis and Marc Galban on various items of clothing in his washer. I want you to come in.”

 

Jack’s voice is sharp, ringing in his ears. Will breathes deeply.

 

“You already found him. Why do you need me to come in?”

 

“I want you to confirm it. And it’ll do you some good to have some closure.”

 

Will frowns, and a dirty spiral of doubt begins to form in his mind. “Did you Hannibal put you up to this?”

 

“It doesn’t matter, Will. I want you to come in,” and the omission is enough of an answer.

 

“I’m not coming in,” Will says firmly.

 

“Will,” Jack turns around and closes the door before he says warningly, “I need to know if we found the right guy. Why are you so opposed to coming in?”

 

“Why do you want me to talk to him so badly?” Will all but hisses. His blood is rushing in his veins – first Jack interrupting Langley, and then Hannibal telling Jack he needed closure. Will digs his nails into his palms.

 

“I need to know if you will be stable out there on the field. We can’t have you disassociating like that again, Will!” Jack shouts.

 

Will grinds his teeth, only half listening to Jack. His ears are filled with the sound of anger – of blood rushing and his heart pumping – Will can’t think of Younger right now, not when he feels like this.

 

“The disassociation was one time,” Will mutters, but his head is whirling. Hannibal knew that he’d be stable after becoming involved with him; why would he tell Jack that Will needed closure?

 

“I can be your anchor, Will. If you have any doubts or reservations, you will come to me. I am bedrock – ” Jack is speaking but Will barely registers his words.

 

_He is skilled and intelligent like no other_ , Langley wrote. _Prone to holding power over others_ –

 

Will feels blind – he is fumbling in the dark, grasping desperately for an answer he knows is there.

 

_You are torn between ethics, and morality, Will_ –

 

Blood.

 

Thick and congealing, hot on his fingers – why do they want him to leave?

 

Blood rushing through Will’s ears, his heart palpitating in his head – he is _so_ close –

 

“Will,” Jack says sharply, grabbing onto Will’s shoulder. The motion cuts through Will’s thoughts like a knife. He retracts from the grip instinctively, pushing himself against the wall. Will blinks, then remembers where he is.

 

“Sorry, I – ”

 

Jack frowns.

 

“That’s my bad shoulder,” he finishes, rolling his arm in his socket for good measure. “I’ll come in,” Will says. “Give me five minutes, I’ll meet you there.”

 

Jack is impassive and Will thinks he is unconvinced for a moment, before Jack nods slowly.

 

“We’ll be waiting for you,” and he strides out of the office.

 

Will stands there for a moment more, than tugs his laptop from his briefcase, shoving papers on his desk aside so he can scan through his emails.

 

Langley, Langley, Langley – Will scours his inbox, searching for Tom’s email, but he cannot find it.

 

“Fuck,” he mutters, under his breath. He reaches into his coat pocket, shoving two aspirins down his throat. Then he fishes his car keys from his pocket, with no intention of driving to see Tristan Younger.


	8. eight

Margot Verger picks her way out of Hannibal’s office, holding the last shreds of her dignity close to her.

 

As the door clicks shut behind her, Hannibal settles himself at his desk. His mind is clear and his patients have been exceptionally polite today. He hums a Brahms waltz as he pulls a sketchbook from his desk. He’s sharpening his pencil with a scalpel, thinking of the wonderful image of Will splayed out on his sheets, spine arched and bruises blossoming on his spine that has been permanently engrained in his mind palace when there’s a knock at his door.

 

Hannibal glances at his clock. It is nearing half past four and his next appointment isn’t due for another thirty minutes.

 

“Just a moment,” Hannibal says, folding his memory’s picture-perfect image of a rather debauched Will Graham, tucking it back into it’s rightful place in his mind palace.

 

“Will,” Hannibal greets, masking his surprise.

 

Will walks slowly into Hannibal’s office, deliberate. Hannibal can sense the anger roiling in him – Will is upset, but moreso, _hurt_ , underneath the disbelief and anger.

 

Will walks to Hannibal’s desk, touches the scalpel which Hannibal had so recently held.

 

“I thought,” he starts off quietly, “I thought we understood each other.”

 

Hannibal watches Will, head tilting in curiosity. He takes his seat across from where so many of his patients have sat.

 

“Has something violated that understanding?”

 

“You told Jack Crawford that – ” Will breathes, and if Hannibal tilts his ear, he thinks he can hear Will’s ribs quivering in zeal. Delightful.

 

“ – That I required, _closure_? That I could, possibly be unstable enough to discontinue my work in the field?” Will’s voice cracks half way through, but he pushes on. “Were you trying to achieve something? By planting this doubt in his mind?”

 

Will’s cheeks are flushed with fire, and his eyes are livid. Hannibal’s hands ache for his scalpel and pen, ache to capture this living objet d’art that is Will.

 

“I was concerned for you, Will,” Hannibal projects calmness into his voice, as if he is comforting a frightened animal. “I wanted closure to ensure you would not be haunted by Tristan Younger’s work again.”

 

Will lets out a mournful noise and his voice is tinged with disbelief when he speaks. “Hannibal, _you_ were my closure. You would pull me out when I’m in dark places, you, you – ”

 

Hannibal breathes in deeply, and he can barely distinguish the scent of Will’s sweat from his aftershave, but he senses that Will’s glands have begun to release the sweetest perfume that can one can hope to brew.

 

“You were my anchor,” Will says softly, slowly, and Hannibal wishes to drown in the sweet undulations of his voice.

 

Hannibal stands, and walks over to where Will leans against his desk.

 

“My dear Will,” Hannibal murmurs when he wraps a hand around the back of Will’s head. He will never cease to be amazed by the softness of Will’s hair. “You told me I was not to be your stability. You were so adamant against codependency.”

 

In the beginning at least, Hannibal notes to himself. Sweet Will was so susceptible to Hannibal’s ministrations; he’d played right into Hannibal’s arms.

 

And here he was now. Hannibal feels Will’s jaw go slack at the slamming realization, and as he pulls Will closer to him, he allows a smile to creep over his face.

 

-

 

Will sits unmoving in his chair, eyes shut.

 

Hannibal sits across from him.

 

After Will realized the depths of his dependency on Hannibal, he’d fallen under the spell of exhaustion – Hannibal can see bags under Will’s eyes even now. Not to mention the side effects of too many aspirins, and a lack of sustenance in his body. Will is most likely dehydrated as well.

 

Hannibal considers the pliant body before him once more. Then he picks up the phone.

 

Jack Crawford picks up after one ring.

 

“Doctor Lecter?”

 

“Will is with me,” Hannibal says swiftly, and he feels amusement at Crawford’s sigh of relief.

 

“He seemed distressed today, after I mentioned seeing Tristan Younger.”

 

Not because of Tristan Younger, Hannibal thinks to himself.

 

“It is a natural reaction after disassociated at the man’s crime scene,” Hannibal says easily. “However, I have discussed this with Will already, and I believe you may continue with the incarceration without a worry toward Will.”

 

“Is he there now?”

 

Hannibal looks at Will.

 

“He is currently indisposed. I believe exhaustion has taken its toll on Will.”

 

Jack Crawford grunts.

 

“Give him my regards, then. And thank you, Hannibal, for taking care of Will. I know he isn’t exactly your patient – ”

 

Hannibal interrupts smoothly.

 

“Will is my friend and I only wish him the best. I do believe that it would be in Will’s best interests if we no longer spoke of his, ah, instability in the field.”

 

“Of course.” Crawford bends easily, even wishes Hannibal a good day before disconnecting.

 

Hannibal turns attention back to the sleeping man across from him.

 

“Now, Will,” he says fondly, “Whatever shall we do with you.”

 

-

 

Will dreams he is drowning.

 

He is surrounded by murky, ice cold water. It’s saltiness fills his nose and clogs his throat, dragging at his clothes. The ocean is angry and turbulent; when Will bobs above water he can barely make out foam-crested waves. He can feel them slamming into his body. His limbs are exhausted from treading water, shaking like a newborn foal.

 

He musters up every ounce of energy left in his body, forces himself to swim towards the shore. His clothes ripple around him and they might as well be anchors, trying to drag him back into the commotion of the sea.

 

After an eternity, Will flops onto the sandy shore, gasping. His chest heaves and his skin is as cold as marble in the gentle wind. He blinks the salt water from his eyes, and the sky is ecru above him. He rolls onto his back, and Will thinks he can feel the sand sticking to his skin.

 

He glances behind him, and he sees a maroon tent with a black embossed pattern, waving gently in the wind. He thinks he hears bells in the wind.

 

“Mr. Graham,” someone calls him, amused.

 

Will rolls around a little more, squinting at the sun.

 

“Over here, Mr. Graham.”

 

Will turns. Tom Langley, wearing the same black sweater, but ripped jeans and no shoes. His skin is pale, so so pale.

 

Will opens his mouth to speak but all that comes out is sand and salt water.

 

Tom’s eyes crinkle. They are jet-black, inky, and above all, murderous.

 

“Mr. Graham, how are you supposed to catch any serial killers like this?” Tom’s laugh is clear and ringing. The bells have stopped.

 

Will glances back at the tent. It’s flaps are rippling in the wind, and Will wants to go inside. Tom follows his glance.

 

“There are more important things than princesses, don’t you think, Mr. Graham? The Chesapeake Ripper for one,” he remarks, amused. “Up we go, Mr. Graham. We’ve got serial killers to catch.”

 

“Why would we need Will to catch him?” Alana materializes, clinging onto Tom’s arm. “We have Tom. Special Agent Tom Langley.”

 

Will opens his mouth again, and the sea crashes over him, swallowing him whole.

 

When Will wakes, he is reclining comfortably on Hannibal’s chaise longue. He remembers lying supine here, Hannibal above him, mouthing a fat hickey onto his neck, just a week ago.

 

He blinks. He is wearing the clothes he wore to the academy, and his glasses are folded in his hands. Past the window, Will can see that it is evening. He glances at the clock on Hannibal’s desk. 7:02 PM.

 

"Hello, Will," Hannibal stands in the sitting room door. His torso fills most of the doorframe, clad in a cream colored suit with black lapels.

 

“I was out for more than two hours,” Will winces at how raspy his voice sounds.

 

“You were exhausted,” Hannibal agrees. “But you are awake just in time. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

 

Will’s limbs ache as he walks behind Hannibal.

 

In the dining room, Hannibal announces, “Salt-crusted red snapper, served over a coconut and clam broth,” setting Will's bowl in front of him. The fish is a garish red and orange in stark contrast to the milkiness of the broth. The dish is sprinkled with greens, and a few drops of carefully placed oil float in the broth.

 

“Snapper was my dad's favorite fish,” Will says, before he can stop himself. The broth is flavorful and the skin of the snapper is crisp.

 

“The red snapper is a beautiful fish,” Hannibal muses, swirling his wine. “Fried or baked in many Southern recipes,” he nods at Will, “And in Japan, the sweet, turgid flesh of the red snapper can be prepared many ways for sashimi or sushi.”

 

“A fish of many uses.”

 

“Indeed.” Hannibal sips at a bit of broth. “Will,” he starts, putting down his spoon. “I do hope you’ll forgive me. I thought you did not want anything from me besides my company, and so I informed Jack Crawford when I believed you were to be unstable.”

 

Will lets out a long breath, watching the way the air from his lungs pushes the oil droplets in their broth.

 

“I should’ve said something,” he says.

 

Hannibal swallows his wine, and Will watches the bobs of his Adam's apple.

 

“I didn’t – I didn’t think of you, to get out of Younger’s mind. I just felt secure enough, with you, before, that I wasn’t drawn to the security of Younger’s state in Middletown. I didn’t need him.”

 

“It was not a conscious decision to leave Younger’s point of view?”

 

“No,” Will says, and he concentrates on keeping his breath steady. “I just, left. I slipped from his perspective when I was finished. Like all the other times before. Except for Sykesville,” Will amends.

 

“And in Sykesville,” Hannibal clarifies, “You did not feel enough stability on your own part to retract yourself from Younger?”

 

Will winces, “I’m not unstable, Doctor Lecter. I know who I am. I was just – just, _drawn_ to Younger’s security, his compos mentis, if you will, when he was inside those bodies.”

 

“Like a ship at sea. Drawn to the allure of the eye of the storm.”

 

“It was tantalizing,” Will admits. He places another morsel of snapper into his mouth. The skin is crisp on the roof of Will’s mouth and salty-sweet on his tongue. “But I have no need to linger in their minds now.” Silence. And then, “I’ve got what I need.”

 

Will does not need to look up to see Hannibal smiling.

 

-

 

Will is pliant after sexual intercourse, at least with Hannibal, the latter thinks.

 

After polishing off their meal, Hannibal had coaxed Will – with little effort – upstairs, where he’d fucked Will into the mattress, offering no reprieve until he’d engendered a climax in Will. The younger man rests now, head curled on Hannibal’s pillow, legs tangled in Hannibal’s sheets.

 

Hannibal props his head up on an elbow, runs the other hand up Will’s thigh. Goose bumps erupt on the flesh that Hannibal blushes.

 

“So sensitive,” Hannibal murmurs quietly, so as not to wake Will. “Even in sleep.”

 

He trails his hand over Will’s hipbone, up the flat planes of his stomach and the dip of his throat. He presses at the skin there with one thumb, feels blood pulsing under his finger and titillation in his gut.

 

When Hannibal brushes against a nipple, it pebbles under his attention.

 

“Susceptible,” Hannibal breathes and his breath washes across Will’s chest. “Both physically and mentally. Dear Will,” Hannibal murmurs, “Whatever shall I do with you?”

 

-

 

Will leaves Hannibal’s home with a steaming thermos of aromatic coffee and the weight of Hannibal’s lips on his cheek.

 

He’s sitting in his car, driving to Quantico when he feels a sudden qualm about the nights he’s spent away from Wolf Trap. He makes a quick call to his neighbors, asks them to fill his bathtub with water for the dogs and just “dump the bag of kibble on the floor.”

 

“The whole bag?” Agnes asks incredulously, and Will nods, then remembers she can’t see his movement.

 

“Yes. Just put it in the kitchen, and rip it open.”

“If you insist,” Agnes murmurs.

 

Will hangs up shortly after that. He doesn’t have enough time to stop by Wolf Trap on his way home, so he’ll have to drive straight to the Academy.

 

The coffee is thrumming in his veins and the frost has just begun to defrost on his windshield when his phone rings.

 

“Will.” It’s Jack. Will tries to dampen the pang of annoyance that begins to form in his belly. “We need you to cancel your morning lecture.”

 

“Of course you do,” Will mumbles.

 

Jack ignores him. “We found another body. We think it’s the Ripper and I need you to come in to take a look.”  


The annoyance shifts into something darker.

 

“Where?” he rasps.

 

“In Pennsylvania. Meet me at the airport as soon as you can, we’re flying there.”

 

Will breathes shallowly.

 

“What – what part of Pennsylvania?”

 

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. A few cars speed around him on the highway, but Will pays them no mind, his mind spinning somewhere else.

 

“Lancaster. Katz, Price and Keller are meeting you there.”

 

Will hangs up and his mind is whirling.

 

At the airport, Will barely glances at the terminal number Jack texts him. His heart is thrumming low in his chest.

 

“Hey, Will!”

Beverly comes up behind him, takes his shoulder as they check in. She wraps her arm around him in guise of a greeting, tilting to her head to rest against his.

 

“Killed two nights ago in Lancaster, found the body yesterday. We had to fight to make sure the Pennsylvanian police force didn’t mess around with the scene,” she murmurs into his ear. “Said on the report that he cut open his chest and pulled out his lungs, but Jack says the Ripper left a little more than that.”

 

She withdraws from his space and claps his shoulder. “Good to see you, champ.” Beverly hands him his plane ticket. “You’re sitting next to me.”

 

The thrum of people crowding to get into the airplane should annoy Will, but his mind doesn’t seem to be all there today. As Beverly and Will take their respective seats in front of Price and Zeller, Will’s thoughts turn to Tom Langley. Subconsciously, he clenches his hands and tenses in his seat.

 

“Hey,” Beverly places a placating hand on Will’s arm. “Don’t stress yourself out before you get there.”

 

Will shakes his head, and Beverly seems pleased when he relaxes in his seat. “We’ll be there soon.”

 

The sounds of Price and Zeller talking behind them, and the low hum of the plane are white noise in Will’s ears, and he forces himself to clear his mind. _Don’t stress yourself out,_ Beverly had said.

 

They land a little more than half an hour later, and Beverly leads the three men to a rental car.

 

“I’m driving,” she says when the employee drops the keys in her hand.

 

“Shotgun,” Zeller pipes up automatically, and Price groans next to Will. Beverly rolls her eyes.

 

The car ride is only a few minutes, so Will only has that long to endure Price and Zeller’s incessant bickering across the car.

 

“We’re here fellas.”

 

The Pennsylvania state police have put up caution tape, but that doesn’t stop a curious crowd from gathering behind police lines. Beverly pushes through them, and Will follows in her wake.

 

“Jack,” Beverly greets. Jack Crawford nods, and looks at Will.

 

“It’s all yours.”

 

Beverly, Jimmy, and Brian swarm around the body, but leave enough room for Will to examine the scene.

 

“Looks like the Ripper performed open surgery,” Price mutters to Will. He points to the gaping wound in the body. “Probably took his intestines.”

 

The victim is reclining against a tree, head thrown back to reveal a pale neck. He is nude and his eyes are open and glassy while his arms are limp by his sides. Will sees blood mattering the grass around the victim’s hands.

 

“He carved something into the victim’s hands,” Beverly muses quietly, and she glances at Jack. “I’m going to take a look.”

 

Jack nods solemnly.

 

Beverly snaps on her latex gloves.

 

There’s a gaping cut from below the victim’s belly button to just under his ribs, coagulated blood forming in the cavity that the laceration left behind. The scent of coppery blood clogs Will’s nose. The body’s legs look bruised, or broken; they bend outwards in an unusual way.

 

“It’s like the Ripper tried to give him bowed legs or something,” Zeller notes. He points to the victim’s thighs and knees. “He splintered the femoral shaft outwards, and possibly the tibia – that’s where the bruising came from – to create the impression of bow-legged stance.”

 

“And he carved something in the victim’s knuckles,” Beverly says. She holds bloody wipes in her hand, crouching by the body. “I’m not exactly sure, but it looks like ‘hold’ on his left hand – one letter in between the spaces between MP joints and PIP points save for the thumb.” She holds up a pale hand. “And the other looks like it says ‘fast.’ Same pattern and same location on the hand.”

 

“Hold fast,” Will mutters.

 

Price looks up at this. “The words ‘hold fast’ were often tattooed onto the hands of sailor’s knuckles in the eighteenth century. It was meant to protect them from falling while aloft in the ship’s rigging.”

 

“A seaman?” Jack asks.

 

Beverly lets out a noise of agreement. “He must’ve done the engravings with a scalpel or something,” Beverly continues. “They’re too fine to get with a knife.”

 

“What I don’t understand,” Zeller interjects, “Is why the Ripper would take the intestines. What kind of surgical trophy is the intestine?”

 

“Intestinal transplants are a last-resort option,” Price notes. “Only a few transplant centers in the world offer intestinal transplants. Not very common at all.”

 

“So either we’ve got some shady transplants, or the Ripper’s making sausage,” Zeller say.

 

Jack ruminates on this. “Can it be a diversion? So we think he isn’t an organ harvester?”

 

Price and Zeller begin debating on the logistics of organ harvesting.

 

“Will,” Beverly comes up to stand by him. “What do you see?”

 

Will holds the yellow pendulum in his fist. He does not need to enter the Ripper’s mind here. He turns into Beverly.

 

“His motives are exactly the same,” he says lowly, “Whatever reason he had to kill has not changed – whether it be harvesting organs or surgical trophies – but the way he has decorated, the way he has left the body behind – that’s what we have to focus on.

 

“He left two distinguishing marks on this body,” Will continues. “The inscriptions on the hands – ”

 

“And the incision into his gut,” Jack concludes.

 

“No,” Will shakes his head, “The incision was for the removal of the intestines – that is irrelevant; it’s the same thing as it is in any other Ripper kill.”

 

“The legs,” Price says, and Will nods. “The Chesapeake Ripper didn’t take anything from this body besides the intestines – the only theatrical marks are the knuckles and the legs.”

 

“Bowed legs,” Zeller says. “Sailors often had to adjust their stance out at sea to compensate for the rocking waves. Wider stance allowed them more balance, and thus, bowed legs.”

 

“Why would the Ripper turn this guy into a sailor?” Beverly remarks.

 

Jack turns towards Will, who remains impassive. “That’s the question we’re all asking, isn’t it,” Jack says finally. “Alright, pack it up. We’re flying the body back to the BAU.”

 

“Will the PSP let us?” Zeller asks skeptically.

 

“They will,” Jack says firmly, and his tone allows no room for argument. He turns to Will.

 

“Alana has told me one of your students is very bright.”

 

“Alana sees the best in people,” Will says reluctantly. Jack eyes him. “What I’m saying Will, is maybe we need fresh eyes on the Ripper case. I don’t want you to run off and tell all of Quantico Academy about this, but if you see potential in anyone – ”

 

Will waves a hand, “Yes, I know Jack.” The man grunts in response, and moves away, continues barking orders.

 

Price and Zeller begin to move to take equipment out of their bags, and Will catches Beverly’s wrist.

 

“I need a favor,” he begins.

 

She glances at Jack, who has his back turned, directing a horde of agents.

 

“I need photos. Of the Ripper’s previous kills.”

 

“Which ones?”

 

“All of them. As many as you can get your hands on.”

 

Beverly closes her eyes for a moment. “Since the Ripper hasn’t been caught, you know – ”

 

“It’s classified information,” Will agrees. “But I just need the photos.”

 

“You’re asking for a lot, Graham,” she says finally. “But you asked the right person.” She nods her head. “When do you need them by?”

 

“As soon as possible.”

 

She shakes her head. “You’re paying the next time we go out for lunch,” she warns, and Will half grimaces, half smiles. “That’s only the first part.”


	9. nine

Will is the first to leave Lancaster.

 

He flies out just after noon, picks up his car at the airport and makes it back to Quantico five minutes before his lecture starts. It’s his B class, a repeat course of the one he taught yesterday. He goes through the slides quickly, ignoring the hand he sees at the back of the class. Will finishes the lecture ten minutes before his class ends, and he lets them go early.

 

In his office, Will drinks Hannibal’s coffee, contemplative. There is one unread email from Beverly Katz; it’s subject is ‘let’s get Italian.’ He glances at the watch on his wrist, and then the schedule he has on his desk. Doctor Bloom’s last lecture of the day ends in ten minutes. Will mulls over his coffee for another moment, then sets it on his desk, gets up to walk outside.

 

Alana’s guest lecturing in a classroom not far from Will’s office, so he makes it there in time to see students milling around her desk, asking questions. She is laughing and the students around her are open; Will thinks that she might’ve been right in saying that Will needed to interact with his students more.

 

Today, Will thinks as he leans outside the classroom door, just out of view, he only has one student in mind.

 

Tom Langley is putting papers into a folder when he walks out of Alana’s classroom. Thankfully, he is alone.

 

“Tom,” Will calls, and Langley looks up in surprise. “Mr. Graham,” he says, clearly pleased and walks towards Will.

 

Will motions for them to walk. “Do you have any classes after this, Tom?” Will asks, when they’re out of earshot.

 

“No,” Tom says pleasantly, “Doctor Bloom’s lecture was my last for today.”

 

“I have, a favor to ask of you,” Will says reluctantly. He pulls his glasses from his face. “Can we get coffee? Let’s talk about it somewhere else.”

 

They walk to a coffee shop a few minutes off campus, and sit at a secluded table, away from the sidewalk and open ears.

 

“Do you remember Jack Crawford?” Will begins.

 

“I do. Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Tom sips at his coffee, tugs a bit at his scarf.

 

“He and I are working on the Ripper case – ”

 

“Has there been another victim?” Tom asks offhandedly.

 

“Yes. And there will be more.”

 

“Two more,” Tom murmurs. “Sounders of three.”

 

“Correct. Now Jack Crawford has allowed me to enlist the help of whomever I think can assist in solving the case.”

 

“Is this where I come in?” Tom inquires.

 

Will nods. “We’re trying to save lives here, Tom. However, being in the field, or even being associated with the case puts you at a risk – ”

 

“I understand,” Tom says smoothly, “And I still want to help.”

 

Will meets his gaze for a moment. He pulls out his phone.

 

“In this email, are photos and notes of every Ripper scene we have recorded to date.” Will hands his phone to Tom, and his eyes are calculating, still as inky and dark as ever.

 

Will looks back down to his coffee. It is murky and thick, hot on his tongue.

 

“Let’s pick up where we left off yesterday. Before we were interrupted.”

 

Will thinks he sees mirth in Tom’s eyes before it dulls into something colder.

 

“Today, I visited the scene of a Ripper victim in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. His gut was cut open, intestines missing.”

 

“That wasn’t all though,” Langley extrapolates.

 

“The Ripper left theatrical evidence as well. Along with the laceration allowing for the removal of intestines, there were marks on the body’s knuckles and breaks in the victim’s leg bones.”

 

Will leans over, the crown of his head almost touching Tom’s as they watch Will scroll to the bottom of the email, where the latest Ripper victim is depicted in 480 pixels.

 

Langley begins slowly. “In the beginning of the year, we discussed the Garrett Jacob Hobbs case – ”

 

A chill runs down Will’s spine when the name leaves Tom’s mouth.

 

“Garrett Jacob Hobbs _honored_ his victims. He used their meat for sustenance, their hair for stuffing, and their bones for knives or handles.

 

“The Ripper, on the other hand, does not. If anything, he dishonors his victims – he only takes their organs.” Tom pauses here. “In the case you witnessed today, there were intestines missing.”

 

“Intestines are rarely used for transplants. They are scarce in the organ harvesting scene,” Will supplies.

 

“Then,” Tom turns his words over in his mouth before he speaks. “In the possibility that the Chesapeake Ripper is not an organ harvester, there is no better way to shame his victims than to eat them.”

 

Tom’s words are quiet, but they resound within Will, cementing a curling suspicion in his gut.

 

“From this evidence, we can see that the Ripper took lungs, hearts, kidneys – organs that can be consumed. It’d explain why there was never evidence found.” Tom blinks at his own words, seemingly shocked.  


“That is the conclusion I arrived at as well,” Will says a moment later. His thoughts are scattered but his body is calm. He sips from his coffee, which is now only lukewarm.

 

“Then – then how are we supposed to catch him?” Langley breathes.

 

Will watches him for a moment, eyes flitting over his nose, his pale cheeks, his lips. Will leans in again, “I have another favor to ask of you.”

 

-

 

Will walks back to the Academy for his last lecture of the day, but not before getting Langley’s correct email and phone number. He’s walking into his classroom when he sees Alana Bloom perched on his desk.

 

“Office hours are on my door,” he says half-jokingly, as he puts his briefcase onto his desk.

 

“I’ll bet,” Alana teases, “I hear you’re finally talking to your students more.”

 

Will snorts. “Just the one.”

 

“Langley’s finally charmed his way into your good books, hm? Stopping by my class,” Alana shakes her head good-naturedly. “I thought you’d come to get coffee, and instead you steal one of my best students.”

 

Will forces a smile.

 

“Half the students think you’re having a liaison with him,” Alana says teasingly but Will can sense the warning in the undercurrents of her tone.

 

“I doubt that very much,” he mutters.

 

“Good looking student, good looking teacher. Someone’s bound to talk,” Alana shrugs.

 

Will opens his mouth to comment on her opinion but then thinks better of it. Instead he says, “Jack Crawford asked me to talk to him.”

 

Alana’s eyebrows furrow, and the mirth leaves her eyes.

 

“Not explicitly Tom in particularly,” Will backtracks hastily, “But,” he casts a wary glance around him, “The Ripper struck again. And Jack’s not letting him go this time. He needs all the help he can get.”

 

Alana lets out a noncommittal noise.   


“And do you feel obligated to help Jack?”

 

“Of course,” Will says. “And even if I didn’t, I’d feel obligated to help save lives, Alana.”

 

“Even after what happened in Sykesville?”

 

Will buries his face in his hands in exasperation. “That was one time,” he says rather forcefully, then sighs. “I’m better now. I just – ”

 

Alana places a comforting hand on Will’s arm. “I’m here for you, Will.”

 

“I know,” he replies.

 

-

 

Wil Graham sits across from Hannibal.

 

“Sometimes, when I’m alone at night, just before I fall asleep, I feel myself slipping into the minds of other people. I can feel what they felt, or – or remember what they did.”

 

Hannibal is contemplative. “Which minds do you enter, Will?”

 

Will wrings his hands. “Some nights, I am Eric Drees. I am nine years old, lying supine on the floor and I feel pinpricks on my arms. It feels like – like needles, dancing in my skin.”

 

“And as Eric Drees, how do you feel? Knowing that your death will engender another three? That your father will kill because his only son has succumbed to the cancer in his flesh?”

 

Will looks at Hannibal. “I do not feel guilt. I only feel pain.” Will shakes his head. “Edward Drees was mad with God, not his son.”  


“Do you ever see the world from Edward Drees’s perspective?”

 

“At times. I felt him, after his incarceration.”

 

“Is he angry?”

 

Will lets out a long breath. “He is not angry.”

 

“He has forgiven his God or has he replaced him with something else?”

 

“He’s killed his God,” Will reminds Hannibal, “By killing three other victims. He’s taken God down from his altar.”

 

“And what has he replaced him with?”

 

Will looks at the doctor’s hands. They are folded neatly in his lap.

 

“Himself. He lost his faith in any deities when his son died; he cut God out of his life when he killed those three people. And now, there is a spot which he will so neatly step into.”

 

“A man stepped into the place of God. What will Mr. Drees do now?”

 

Will meets Hannibal’s steady gaze.

 

“What would you do, were you in his place?”

 

Hannibal muses over this, brushes invisible dirt off his pants.

 

“Whatever I would want to do,” he says simply. “With no God in place, I would follow my own urges, and satisfy them in whatever way I desire.”

 

“Is that not what you already do? I wouldn’t think that you’d let something as insignificant as God stand in your way, Doctor Lecter.”

 

Will can sense amusement simmering in Hannibal.

 

“If you are asking me if I believe in God, then I must recall that you’ve already asked me this before.”

 

“You offered me two sides of a coin, Hannibal, not a definitive answer.”

 

“A coin it is,” Hannibal says, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “A sortition to determine faith.”

Will mimics Hannibal’s motion, leaning back in his own chair.

 

“Why, Will, wasn’t it obvious?” and when Hannibal smiles, Will sees a glimmer of his teeth.

 

Will’s breath hitches in his throat, although Will can’t exactly pin down the reason why. The clock on Hannibal’s desk strikes 8:30.

 

“Are you busy tomorrow night? I plan on making shrimp étouffée,” Will offers, as Hannibal holds open his office door for him.

 

“I’d be delighted to come over,” Hannibal says genially. He tucks his fingers into the spill of Will’s sleeve, pulls him in close to press his lips against Will’s mouth.

 

Hannibal’s body is all hard, toned lines, and now more than ever, Will is hyperaware of his muscles that he hides underneath his suits, the strength he bears in his arms. Hannibal’s lips are soft under Will’s.

 

“Until then,” Will says.

 

-

 

Hannibal locks his office after Will leaves.

 

He’s thinking of his scalpel and pencil waiting on his desk as he drives home.

 

When Hannibal steps into his home, instinctively his head tilts upwards, nostrils flaring slightly. He smells the lingering traces of a flowery perfume. He locks his door behind him, walks slowly to his kitchen.

 

His home is completely silent, save for his own steady breathing.

 

In his kitchen, he tastes the perfume once again in the air, this time muddled with a clean cologne, perhaps the scent of coffee. Hannibal has tasted that coffee before. Hannibal has smelled that perfume before.

 

Hannibal lets out a small sigh, allows the pangs of remorse to clutch at his belly. He did not want it to end this way.

 

Instead, Hannibal flicks on the light in his kitchen. There are intestines waiting in his refrigerator, and tonight, Hannibal thinks he will make sausage.

 

He puts on Chopin’s Nocturnes, Opus posthumous.


	10. ten

 

Will tosses parsley into his pot of shrimp and tomatoes. He thinks that his shrimp étouffée is coming along rather nicely.

 

The first days of winter are cold, and cruelly so. The dogs have curled up inside, in the warmth of the house. Tonight, they watch serenely while Will cooks.

 

Will is steaming rice when he hears the genteel tapping at his door. He wipes his hands on a nearby towel.

 

“Hannibal,” Will greets the man. When he opens the front door, his dogs barrel out in a frenzy, barking loudly. Will winces, “Sorry about that, I guess they were cooped inside of the house for too long.”

 

“It is in the animal’s nature to crave the adrenaline running through its veins,” Hannibal says, unperturbed. “If you regulate it’s urges for too long, the animal will lash out, in an attempt to do what it so instinctively desires to do so.” Hannibal slips out of his coat, hangs it on the coat hanger by Will’s door.

 

They walk into the kitchen. “If you confine the animal, it will bare its teeth in response.”

 

“An animal backed in a corner with nothing to lose is the most dangerous animal,” Will notes, and he turns his back on Hannibal to stir the shrimp. His gut twinges.

 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal mulls behind him. “Or perhaps, the most dangerous animal of all is one that has been betrayed.”

 

Will hears these words leave Hannibal’s mouth. He is stirring the shrimp. The dogs are outside. This is when Hannibal pounces behind him, and Will can only imagine the spring in Hannibal’s muscles, as they coil and uncoil.

 

Hannibal wraps one arm around Will’s neck, grabbing him in a chokehold, and the other arm is tight around Will’s waist; his movements are swift as lightning.

 

Will lets out an estranged noise and his gut is twisting – it feels like a hand has wrapped around his insides, twisting and yanking. He thrashes in Hannibal’s grasp – his blood is pumping like water rushing into a water fall, and his thoughts are a single mantra – _I will not die, I will not die_ –

 

Will’s feet are scrambling for the ground, the tips of his toes barely brushing the floor. “Do not struggle, Will,” Hannibal murmurs and all Will can think of is the meals that he’s shared with this man – the _people_ he had consumed –

 

“Dear Will,” Hannibal purrs in his ear and Will wants to cry. His stomach is clenched, and he can feel his cheeks flushed – Hannibal’s arm is a vice around his neck and when he feels the cold silver of a knife against his belly, Will instantly freezes. “Good boy,” Hannibal murmurs. How Hannibal got the knife so quickly and silently when Will had his back turned, Will will never know.

 

“When did you find out, hm? When did you realize that I was the sea you struggled so vehemently to break free of? That you were the sailor resting under the tree?”

 

Will feels bile rising in the back of his throat, and Hannibal is achingly warm against him. He whimpers, thinks of the time that these hands had caressed him, had run along the length of his skin.

 

“Will,” Hannibal presses the cold knife a little harder into Will’s skin, and Will hears the knife _sing_ – it is craving for blood, it’s teeth are hungry – “Will, stay with me. Stay here,” Hannibal says, and his voice is rumbling in Will’s ear.

 

 _The Ripper’s making sausage_ , Zeller had said.

 

“When? When did you find out?” Hannibal’s voice is calm, curious.

 

“Jack – ” Will gasps, “Jack asked me to speak to Tristan Younger,” and then he splutters, hands scratching at Hannibal’s arms.

 

“The night you came to me so distraught,” Hannibal muses, and he pushes the knife a little harder.

 

Will cries out when the teeth of the knife dig into his skin, and he does not register the pain – it just feels so so _cold_ –

 

“I had thought your anxiety was directed at the fact that you had just realized how dependent you were,” Hannibal murmurs, and he sounds lost in thought. “I was mistaken.”

 

Will’s heart is beating like a hammer in his head, and more than anything he wishes this were over. “Please,” he gurgles, when he feels Hannibal press his warm lips to Will’s temple. Blood trickles out of Will’s wound and it feels like a viper is trying to bite its way out of Will’s skin.

 

“I can understand Tristan Younger now,” Hannibal says slowly, “I understand his desire to live within another body, feel this warm pulse of blood.” Hannibal breathes slowly, his breath tickling Will’s ear. “Tell me Will, who did you send, along with Beverly Katz, to invade my home last night?”

 

_The sea promises erasure, Will._

 

Will whimpers again, but his body is limp, and he has ceased to struggle. “One – one of my students,” he whispers, “Was clever enough to put two and two together. Missing – missing organs, no evidence.”

 

Hannibal hums. “Pray tell, did you realize what the Chesapeake Ripper was doing with the organs before your student pointed it out?”

 

Will pants. “I needed – confirmation. I wasn’t, wasn’t sure,” his voice is fading now, and Will begins to see black spots in his vision. The blood oozes out of his body; Will can feel it running down his leg. _He is skilled and intelligent like no other_ , _prone to holding power over others_ –

 

“And so you sent Katz and the student to find evidence, during our appointment.”

 

“Jack – Jack knows now,” Will manages to gasp, “They, they told him everything.”

 

Hannibal lets out a growl of displeasure, twists the knife cruelly in Will’s gut and Will cries out, tears streaming down his face. Belatedly, he registers the clatter of the knife as it falls to the floor.

 

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs, as he draws Will into his body, “Sweet Will.”

 

Hannibal’s eyes are cold and distant, maroon in the light of Will’s house. Will gasps for breath – his head feels light and his hands feel so heavy. Instinctively, Will fists his hands into Hannibal’s shirt. “I did not want it to end this way,” Hannibal says, but it sounds like a warble, and Will registers the fact that Hannibal presses his lips against Will’s, then his eyes slip shut.

 

 


End file.
